


The Reluctant Bridegroom

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternative Universe - Medieval, Armitage Hux is Not Nice, Arranged Marriage, Bad Girl Bazine, Badass Leia, Badass Poe Dameron, Badass Rey, Blood and poison mentioned, Canon-Typical Violence, Consummation of Marriage, Depiction of seasickness, Devoted Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Dominant Rey, Dynastic struggle, F/M, Friends to Lovers, HEA, King Ben, Love at First Sight, Mention of childbirth, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Pregnancy, Reylo - Freeform, Snoke Being a Dick, Subversive Rey, Vomiting, assassination attempt, jealous Rey, queen rey, they are both teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I’m going to try get this done in two chapters, which should take about two weeks to produce the second part. If I’ve overlooked any tags, please let me know.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 39
Kudos: 90





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ayearandaday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayearandaday/gifts).



> I’m going to try get this done in two chapters, which should take about two weeks to produce the second part. If I’ve overlooked any tags, please let me know.

**The Bride and Groom**

He shifted his feet impatiently, gold spurs chinking, the leather heels of his boots scraping against the stone flags of Notre-Dame cathedral. She was late. His frown deepened, his left hand gripping the leather bound hilt of his sword tighter, the large ruby on the pommel catching light from the hundreds of candles lighting the cathedral’s glorious interior, causing it to glow.

His bodyguard, wary of his mood, stood off, clustered together for mutual protection, eyes cast down so as not to catch his. They were aware that this marriage was not of his choosing. Snoke had ordered it, and although his mother had protested it, putting him under intolerable pressure, Snoke had prevailed - as always.

Why was she late? It was unthinkable, of course, that she came to him unwillingly, he had shaken off that thought as quickly as it had been brought to birth, he knew his own worth as the Skywalker heir.

Anyhow, the chit should be grateful to have him. She was a relation of the king, not close enough to give her bridegroom a claim to the kingship through her, but close enough that the county she brought with her would remain free from depredation by Louis. Yes, gratitude was owed him.

Of course, without the dowry she brought it would be unthinkable for him to ally himself with this relative nobody, a mere countess, but Palpatine wealth was not to be sneezed at. “It will give you independence, my boy,” had been his mentor’s clinching argument, and it had been that assurance which had ensnared him.

Independence, the holy grail of his majority. If it took marriage to a chit barely out of the schoolroom, he’d do it. After all, he didn’t have to keep her with him, there were residences enough where he could park her - come to think of it, he could deposit his interfering mother there too. His mood lightened.

Yes, he could afford to be magnanimous; give her her own household so that she felt no slight. Of course, they’d have to do the deed eventually, but no hurry, the Lady Bazine would give in to his ardour any day now and there was no question of who would please him most carnally. At the thought of the Lady Bazine’s charms he felt heat in his belly, his expression softening.

The sound of clattering hooves and the jingle of harness pulled him from his pleasant reverie. He straightened up, smoothing down his _jupon_ , embroidered with his coat of arms and heraldic beasts, its thick padding proof against an assassin’s dagger.

He could hear accompanying shouts outside now, grooms and knights dismounting he supposed, and the business of keeping back the boisterous crowd waiting to see the Lady Rey and the Lord Kylo Ren wed, hoping for silver pennies, and crusts from the wedding breakfast, no doubt. He put a hand to his hat, adjusting the black velvet brim and rearranging the liripipe lined with red silk across his breast and over his right shoulder. His knights moved in closer to support him.

His mother came in first, accompanied by two of her ladies. As she drew closer, he saw her expression was full content, like a cat that had been at the cream, and she seemed amused by something, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

He had not taken much notice of the depiction of his betrothed’s charms - which had been droned out before him with mind-numbing predictability - having been principally concerned with the calculation of the dowry she was to bring him, but was the girl benighted? Was that what was causing his mother mirth? He began to scowl. His bodyguard drew off a little ways.

Various persons attached to the court scuttled in, crowding as close to the altar as they could without encroaching on the chairs set out for the king and his mother. At last the stamp and scrape of boot and shoe abated and only a quiet murmuring filled the vast space. Then trumpets sounded as Louis entered through the open cathedral doors, leading a slender figure dressed in a green gown with a surcoat trimmed with sable. His bride.

He ought to be taking in his bride’s beauty, but was instead fixated on Louis, or rather the expression on Louis’ face, which wore a similar look to his mother’s - that of barely concealed amusement. Not for nothing was Louis called The Spider King. What web had he spun to entrap Kylo Ren?

His right hand was taken, and it was with difficulty he dragged his eyes away from Louis’ face to look down and see the tiny tanned hand being put into his; the king’s voice broke through his jangling thoughts.

“M’sieur, I present to you your bride. The fairest flower of Gascony.”

He raised his eyes and looked upon perfect beauty, his hand automatically enfolded the hand resting so trustingly against his palm as the sight of her loveliness triggered his acquisitive and possessive nature.

_Mine_ , his mind growled. _”Ma belle”_ , his mouth breathed.

At the ardent note in his voice, mouthing such a pretty compliment, the eyes of the vision before him lost their solemn look and her pretty pink lips parted in a wide smile, showing even white teeth. Across her perfect nose and the apples of her cheeks a pink glow lit the freckles scattered there across skin touched by the sun, rendering them golden.

He had made her blush with his ardency. What more might he achieve once he had her in his arms? He vowed to find out.

She was tugging to free her hand but he tightened his grip, pouting his dissatisfaction at her wanting to be free of him so soon. She took in his sulky look and chided him, “Come, come, m’sieur, we are here to be married and there awaits the priest.”

Her accented English was delightful to his ear. He tore his gaze from her and looked to where she gestured. True enough, there at the altar rail awaited the Abbot who was to marry them, Louis’ right-hand man.

“I see him, sweetheart, but must you be so quick to let go my hand?”

His voice sounded petulant to his own ears.

It provoked laughter from her; a merry, bright sound.

“My lord, you must await me there. Or are you a reluctant bridegroom?” There was mischief in her gaze. Minx, she had noted her effect upon him and sought to tease him.

“I prefer that we go together, _domina_.”

She laughed again, “Very well, m’sieur, as a boon you may walk beside us.”

At this, reluctantly, he let go her hand, Louis taking possession of it with that self-satisfied smile still writ large upon his face. He chose to ignore it.

He felt the lack of her warmth the very second he let go, so in recompense snagged a fold of her gown, trailing in her wake. He may or may not have heard a titter go through the assembled company at this evidence of future uxoriousness. If he did, he chose to ignore it.

Safely arrived at the altar rail, with great ceremony Louis relinquished his bride to him, sketching a courtly bow and withdrawing. At last he had her to himself; well, apart from the hundred or so persons witnessing their union. He was conventional in his beliefs, but it seemed to him there was something of the divine in their joining. When he was in proximity to her, holding fast her hand as he was now doing, it was if there were just they two in all the world.

They were kneeling on their cushions now before the Abbot, who was instructing them to clasp their hands together in prayer. There followed a short tussle between them as he would not relinquish possession of her hand. Rolling her eyes, she compromised and bowed her head over her free hand as though at her devotions. He followed suit.

At last they were done, a priest stepping forward with their rings on a velvet cushion. Ren frowned a little, his minions had misjudged, her ring was far too large. He tsked his annoyance, but she was serene, taking a bejewelled ring from another finger and slipping it over her wedding band to keep it secured.

She held out that hand, now adorned with his ring, and he captured it in a kiss as the final benediction was said over them. This piqued his appetite for more kisses and as the priest pulled back he rose to his feet, drawing her up after him and enfolding her in his arms to claim a different sort of kiss from those lovely lips.

Heedless of the laughter rippling through the church, and the collective _’oh-la-la’_ directed heavenwards, he drank deep from the soft lips pressed to his, feeling his wife’s arms encompass his shoulders after only a little hesitation on her part.

Raising his head he looked down upon her flushed face, her eyes feverish looking with the latent passion he had awoken in her. He leered, his voice husky with a corresponding passion, “How liked you that, _domina_?” She shook her head and buried her face briefly against his _jupon_ , suddenly rendered shy.

Then his perfect bubble was burst by the clamour of persons wishing to congratulate them, pressing forward to seek also the prince’s favour on such an auspicious day. At last he could lead her out of the crowd, the king and his mother following, united in perfect amity which, had he not been so distracted, was suspicious in itself.

Standing on the cathedral steps, a great cheer went up, and he proudly showed off his little bride, seeing to his satisfaction her blushes increase - he would enjoy schooling this shy little bird to his tastes.

Tenderly directing her down the stone steps, he was taken aback to find not a sweet paced palfrey brought up for her to mount, but rather a destrier, a full-blooded chestnut stallion whose iron shod feet struck impatiently against the cobbles, head up and pulling the groom clinging limpet-like to its bridle practically off his feet, anxious to be off.

He looked at it in some consternation, “Sweetheart, some dullard has changed your gentle mare for this brute. Let me make inquiry amongst the messieurs if I can make a change for something more fitting.”

She laughed then, taking back possession of her precious hand, (why was she so set against him holding it?), and lifted her skirts as she danced gaily down the few remaining steps, calling over her shoulder, “No mistake, husband. This is my own sweet boy come to carry me safely as if with wings!”

At her words there was a fluttering either side of him and three maids, two blonde and one dark haired, danced past him heading for the melee of horses, grooms and squires. “ _A’voir_ , my lord,” a voice gaily trilled, that of his wife now in the saddle. “It is regrettable that I must leave you behind, but there are no gentle mares here for you to mount!”

Her laugh rang out as she dropped her hands and the stallion started forward with a clatter, perfectly restrained until the cobbles had been cleared and then moving into a trot. Her maids were clustered about her, their gowns billowing like bright butterfly wings under the autumn sun. Behind them clattered knights, squires and grooms. The crowd, which had parted to allow them through, closed ranks and she was lost from view.

He startled into activity with the loss of sight of her, bellowing for his own horse to be brought and cursing every man in his service for their tardiness. His own destrier was brought up and he leapt into the saddle, heels digging into his horse’s flanks before his feet were in the stirrups, urging him on in hot pursuit of his runaway bride.

Leia and Louis stood tranquilly side by side observing all these happenings, “My dear Louis,” Leia’s pleasant gravelly drawl sounded, “this isn’t going to go the way my son thinks, is it?”

Louis bowed over her hand, bestowing a chaste salute to her fingers, “My very dear madam, I sincerely hope so.”

Leia laughed, a short, low sound, “Louis, if we were not in public, I’d kiss you for your wit.”

Louis bowed low, “Princess, let not sight of these unwashed hordes deter you.”

A great shout went up across the square, not only for the sight of the king being soundly kissed on the lips, but relief at the coming peace it betokened.

**The Marriage Bed**

He had endured an interminable banquet, suffered endless congratulation, tolerated his bride being taken continually from his side to dance with endless hordes of messieurs, (he _could_ dance but chose not to), and had occupied himself latterly with delivering death glares to any of his own party who dared importune her to tread a measure with them, thereby prolonging her absences from his side.

Now, at last, his beneficence was rewarded. His mother had taken his bride discreetly away to prepare for his coming to claim her. He waited some minutes and then himself withdrew, for he too must undergo preparation to bed her.

“Benjamin,” his mother had earlier whispered to him, “have a care, she is but young.” This irritated him more than he could express; as if he didn’t know to go gently with his virgin bride. 

He had nodded curtly to acknowledge he had heard her, but didn’t enlighten his mother that, courtesy of the Lady Bazine, he wasn’t a complete novice in the art of love.

His feelings toward this lady had undergone a sea change since meeting the fascinating creature whom he could now call wife. He had formerly wished to be this lady’s _chevalier_ , truly he had, and to consider himself in love with her, but truth be told, apart from carnal pleasure to be got, she had the greater gain if she could hold him in thrall.

It was strange, he mused, at how clearly he saw things when not under Snoke’s direct jurisdiction.

At last he was prepared and walked out dressed only in his robe and clutching his sword and dagger. Louis met him at his bride’s door and shook his hand, giving him the kiss of peace before knocking and calling out for admittance. The door was opened, bright light spilling into the gloomy passageway lit only by torches, and a wave of heat from all the candles lit therein.

His bride, his Rey, was already abed, her hair chastely covering her breasts, being otherwise naked. He walked around to his side, depositing his sword within easy reach and unsheathing his dagger. He saw the startled expression in his bride’s wide eyed look, and heard a corresponding murmur of concern from amongst the assembled throng. No matter, this was how he lived, as he stuck the dagger securely into the carved wood of the headboard under which his head would lie; should he need it it was to hand.

He took off his robe and threw it onto the coverlet, hearing titters and muted _oh-la-la’s_ from the ladies present and appreciative guffaws from the few men. Princess Leia’s only son had nothing to be ashamed of and every reason to be proud.

He saw his wife’s eyes widen again, ogling his physique, and he sent her a self-satisfied smirk. Her lips pursed together at his show of over confidence, her brows drawing together, and her nose wrinkled delightfully as she huffed at his arrogant self-assuredness.

He flexed the muscles in his upper body before he slid between the cool linen sheets for the benefit of the matrons and maidens there, his manhood lying thick and strong against his upper thighs. More tittering broke out and hands were pressed coyly against mouths, supposedly to suppress mirth, but he saw the want in their eyes and smirked in acknowledgement of their lust. His wife’s expression changed to that of affronted scowl, glaring at the assembled females as if daring them to encroach on her property.

A sharp elbow dug into his ribs brought his full attention back to his bride, she just as desirable as he; in someways more so, for out of her would come sons and with her came hereditary rights to a rich county.

Called to order, he was now aware of the Abbot standing at the foot of the bed to bless them, and adopted a serious mien. His mother and the king stood to one side, causing his eyes to narrow suspiciously as he observed how close his mother was pressed to Louis. He would have speech with her about this tomorrow.

The final benediction given, his mother began shooing out all persons, herself leaving supported on Louis’ arm, casting one last pleading glance his way. He suppressed his sense of irritation once more.

As the door closed, not pausing to cover his nakedness, he was out of bed and before it, drawing the bolts home. As he made love to his bride he would be vulnerable to an assassin’s blade. Kylo Ren did not do vulnerable.

As he made his way back to bed, he snuffed out candles in their brackets, leaving only enough light to see her face, and for her to see his. He was against fumbling in the dark where she was concerned, he needed to see her pleasure and for her to know how much she pleasured him.

Back at her side, he could see that what was to happen next had begun to weigh upon her, as she shrank back to her side of the bed. “So, wife,” he put a boastful tone into his words, “do you find your husband a fine fellow? Did you see how the ladies were mad to have me? Why, I believe you could have got a hundred marks from anyone of them to take your place.”

At his words, she sat bolt upright, giving him such a look as to freeze the marrow in his bones. Her scowl was back, “Huh,” she huffed, “I suppose you do very well, for a cock on a dung heap!”

“Oof,” he clutched at his chest, which she was trying very hard not to ogle, “you wound me, wife.”

“Ha, best I wound you with words than by some other means. Popinjay!”

“Now here’s a fine start,” he scooted near her, putting his lips to her bare shoulder and bestowing a kiss. You’d best make the best of me, for you cannot give me back.” He grinned at her and received a shy smile back, quickly suppressed.

“Here,” he began, “your hair is lovely, but will tangle if left to lie loose like this. Let me.”

He knelt beside her, feeling her shrink away. Undeterred, he raked through her hair with his fingers, drawing it to one side. The mattress had shifted under them with his weight and she had fallen against his side, a hand to his chest for support and the other briefly brushing against his manhood. That hand was quickly snatched away.

He hummed as he worked, nimble fingers confidently braiding along her hairline, making a frame for her face ... “To better show off your beauty, wife” he murmured, seeing her blush at the compliment, and then working the strands into the rest of her hair, braiding it from the side to lie over her shoulder ... “so that you may easier sleep, sweetheart.”

The job done, he slid down by her side, reaching across and tweaking the nipple of one of her exposed breasts. She gave a little squeak of surprise. “Come, wifey,” he softly coaxed, “come give your husband a lovely kiss.”

He reclined against the bank of pillows and watched her from under hooded eyes. She was biting her lip, eyes cast down. He had covered his manhood with the sheet as he’d laid back, there was only the naked expanse of his chest to worry her. He waited patiently, gently trailing the fingertips of one hand down her back. She had freckles there too, across her shoulders.

She turned with suddenness, laying across him, her breasts soft against the hard muscle of his chest. She inexpertly pressed her lips to his. His big hands encompassed her, stroking her back down to her buttocks. It was obvious, before him she had never received or initiated a kiss.

She did not pull away but reared back, regarding him with eyes made big with apprehension.

“Sweetheart, you may do with me as you will, but understand, nothing has to happen tonight to which you do not give full consent.” He gentled her, his hands continuing to stroke her in a steady, reassuring rhythm. She made a sound very much like a sob and buried her face against his chest.

He saw how this night would go and suppressed a sigh, gathering her to him and murmuring reassuring words; he was not the monster it was supposed. In this manner they eventually drifted into sleep.

He awoke to dawn’s early light peeping through the high windows of Louis’ palace. He was curled protectively around his wife, their legs entangled, their fingers entwined. Gently he disentangled himself from her, hearing a low, protesting moan at the loss of him. He tucked the bedclothes snug against her back and she subsided, though her lips formed a little moue of protest even in sleep.

He relieved himself, after persuading his morning erection to subside, fastening his robe about him. He retrieved dagger and sword and laid them upon the table where wine, fruit, bread, and honey lay. He poured himself a glass of wine, crunching down on sweet black grapes plucked from Louis own glasshouses, each larger than a quail’s egg. “We’ll build a garden,” he mused, “at Windsor or Berkhamstead. I’ll keep her safe from the intrigues at court, from Snoke, and we’ll build a garden together - hopefully, a family too.”

He dipped a little of the stale bread into his wine and, chewing on this morsel, walked to his wife’s side of the bed and retrieved the linen cloth meant to catch the blood from her maidenhead. He would not have her shamed before Louis’ court, or make room for some sharp-elbowed lady to try take her place. What passed when they lay together was between them, and always would be he vowed. To that end, he made judicious use of a little of the wine upon the crumpled cloth, gathering up his weapons and flinging it down upon the tabletop.

He looked down upon her one last time, noting the soft perfection of her face, free from line or blemish except for a small mark on her right cheek. Incurred through some childhood accident he assumed. He bent and kissed her temple and saw her start to stir as if to begin the journey from sleep to wakefulness. “Sleep, sweetheart,” he soothed, “it is not yet time to wake.” He watched her settle and turned to leave her.

He drew back the bolts on the chamber door as soft as he might, seeing her stir again at the sound, and quietly let himself out. One of his wife’s maids was sleeping in the passageway. He toed her with a slippered foot. She rose up from the rug she was laid upon, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Go within,” he quietly ordered, “and lie beside your mistress and do good to her when she wakes, for in truth, she has laboured hard.” With that he was on his way back to his allotted suite, determined to thrash each of his bodyguard in practice combat, or all six together, to relieve his aching libido.

**The Other Woman**

She’d awoken from a deep sleep to find her maid lying beside her. At once deep shame assaulted her senses; she had failed in her duty to her house and to her king. Oh, what a tale to tell she had given her warlord husband, no doubt before the whole court; his lady mother.

She had wanted him, right from when he had kissed her at the altar, those soft, plush lips coaxing hers, feeling the hard strength of his arms and body. It had felt intoxicating. Yes, if he’d taken her then and there all would be well now, but she had shrunk back at the sheer exposed _maleness_ of him as he’d slid naked between the sheets.

Apart from the size of him, there had been the concerning size of his _appendage_ \- formidable even while it rested. Her hand had touched it by sheer mischance and although it had felt soft, as a result of that brief caress it had grown even more, but not yet to its fullest extent! Like an untried filly, she had baulked at the sight and skittered to a halt, and been inclined to bolt from the room.

Part of the marriage contract, she knew, had been to negate Kylo Ren’s claim to portions of land held by Louis which had once belonged to his grandmother, to which he had the legal right. Had she invalidated it by her childish behaviour?

A feeling of hot shame passed through her once more, as if a winnowing flame.

Would he now repudiate her? Had he already done so? All she had had to do was bear his weight, a few thrusts on his part and the deed was done and could not be undone. What had she done instead? Sobbed on her handsome husband’s broad, firm chest like a newborn and been soothed into sleep by the caress of his large, warm hands.

The shame of it.

It was a convent now for her for sure, and her lands sequestered by Louis, and everything her fault. Hers, the last Palpatine, and following on from that the probability of war.

She sat up, whimpering at the sense of dread now filling her belly.

“My lady,” her maid’s voice, soft with worry, assailed her ears. “Was he rough with you? Shall I send for a physician? Do you still bleed?”

“Rough? No, my Lord was courtesy itself.” She flushed at the lie which she must maintain.

Perhaps she could bluff her way out of this? No, for there would be no sign her maidenhead had been taken. Her blush deepened as she thought of facing her maids. What excuse could she give? The answer was writ starkly in her mind: none.

She covered her face with her hands, bowing over them in worry. Her maid was speaking again, observing, “I see he spoke truth. He said he’d worked you hard.” Rey raised her head, an inquiry on her lips. The maid was standing beside her, a cloth stained with blood in her hands. If she looked confused, closing her mouth against the words which wanted to tumble forth, the girl misread it for something else.

“I see he is as much a brute in bed as he is in battle,” her haindmaid’s voice was scornful. She could not allow this, knowing the truth of it. Rey assumed _hauteur_.

“You will not speak so of my lord. He had a work to do and did it. I am content. It follows, if I am content so must you be.”

The girl’s face showed her chagrin at being so chastised. Rey hardened her heart; the stakes she was playing for were greater than her handmaiden’s wounded sensibilities. “Go now,” she ordered, “and fetch hot water, or are you now made so great that I must be maid to you?”

The girl’s face crumpled a little, but she curtseyed and quickly went to do her mistress’s bidding, casting the linen cloth on the coverlet in her haste to be gone about her business. This false evidence Rey’s trembling fingers picked up as soon as the chamber door was latched. Only one person could have done this deed, and for one purpose - he wished for the marriage.

Very well, she would not complain, it was a fair exchange; her hand given in honourable marriage for title deed to her lands, which would be passed on to her - their - children. Safe from depredation by Louis, who, it was an open secret, was afraid of Kylo Ren, of what devastation he might bring upon the land were he so inclined, or if the whim of that creature Ren served put it into his mind. She would not fail her king again nor her house.

Amongst these noble thoughts was also a wish, a tiny flame of hope, that she was wanted for herself too. She stared down at the cloth; if her husband had a heart to be won, she would win it.

She was not long left alone, the door to the bedchamber opened and in walked, not her maids as expected, but her lord’s lady mother, the princess.

“Daughter,” the princess’s tone was warm and loving as she bent over her son’s new wife, her eyes flicking to Rey’s braided hair, nearly as perfect as when new made the night before, even though no ribbon secured it.

It was the princess and her woman, a tiny creature named Maz, with eyes that seemed to unlock every secret thing in a person’s heart, who bathed and dressed her. As a consequence, Rey’s unease increased exponentially.

Her hair was last to be dressed, and it seemed to Rey that her braided hair was the cause of much amusement between Leia and her handmaiden, as the princess’s fingers briefly paused before undoing the tightly woven skeins, judging by the meaningful look exchanged between them.

Leia hummed as she worked, a soft, soothing melody. Maz, her maid, instructed Rey’s own maids to clear away bath and copper jugs and linen towels. Her demeanour was one of habitual authority, and Rey guessed she had been in the princess’s service a long while and had her full confidence.

At last her hair was dressed and Maz approached bearing two ivory combs, cunningly carved with the likeness of mistletoe. The stems and leaves had been painted green, though the creamy ivory berries glowing lustrously above them needed no artificial enhancement.

Realising they were meant as a gift for her, Rey protested, guilt assailing her, the sense of being a fraud almost overwhelming her.

“No, daughter,” Leia gently chided, “for you have saved my house this day.”

“I,” gasped Rey. “Madam, I assure you I have not.”

Leia turned her head and nodded to Maz, who stepped forward clutching the linen cloth and holding it out to show the bloody mark. If Rey had been pale before she now was not, for she felt her cheeks burning as if with fire.

“My son has taken you as wife,” Leia was speaking softly so no other could hear, “and by this may the errors of the past be righted.”

“Madame, please, you must understand,” Rey stammered out, about to betray herself.

“Hush, child,” Leia put a finger against Rey’s lips, “I understand everything and, in time, so will you.”

“Come,” Leia straightened up, clapping her hands imperiously and addressing Rey’s maids, “we must make haste. Soon it will be time for the dinner bell and we must show off your mistress.” Rey’s maids, huddled by the door, were in awe of this great personage: Kylo Ren’s lady mother, the daughter of a queen, a princess in her own right.

Catching Rey’s hand, Leia pulled her up from the stool where she had been sitting and pushed her toward the chamber door, which her maids had now opened wide and were stood beside awaiting her pleasure.

As if in a dream she passed through the open doorway, a massive bodyguard waiting in the passageway as their escort. What she didn’t see, at a word from her mistress, was Maz throwing the bloodied cloth onto the fire and watching it ignite and burn.

Sure of its destruction, this lady turned on her heel and followed in the wake of her mistress, content with the deeds so far done that day.

Her husband was pleased to see her, frowning only at the sight of the too large wedding band, secured under a bejewelled ring which was not of his choosing. At her look of apprehensive worry at his showing displeasure, his brow cleared and he bent and kissed the offending ring, assuring her it would be replaced by the day’s end. At her breathy assurance that she did not mind he commented tersely, “I do.”

The combs in her hair, however, did meet with his approval, though they too were not of his giving. A certain mistiness was evident in his eyes as he reached out and gently touched one of them. Rey guessed they were a family heirloom. 

Certainly they influenced his manner of greeting his mother; cool but respectful and free of the irritation he had expressed in her presence the previous day.

He paid in full any courtesy she was owed and ensured she was properly escorted to table - Louis offering himself as her _beau-chevalier_. This display of courtly chivalry was met with thin lipped civility by Leia’s son, which seemed to provoke amusement in his mother and the king.

He intercepted sly, knowing glances between the two, and only his wife timidly requesting the support of his left hand to lead her to table loosened the white knuckled grip on his sword hilt.

The afternoon passed pleasantly, Rey proving herself to be a skilful archer, competing against the gentlemen of the court to the delight of both Louis and Leia. Her husband was more restrained in his praise, perhaps because of the annoyance who was Poe Dameron, her Champion.

Poe’s first meeting with Kylo Ren had not gone well.

Poe being much older than the both of them, and having been dedicated to the teenage countess’s service since the age of fifteen, his suave bonhomie and free and easy way of addressing Kylo Ren’s new bride had given offence. So much so that Ren had bristled and started forward, hand on sword hilt.

Rey, stepping between them, identifying the knight as her champion, halting Ren’s progress to lay violent hands upon the easy mannered older man, whose broad, white toothed smile had flashed, not in the least bit intimidated by the snarling, brooding teenage warlord intent on doing him harm.

“Oh, well, thank you for your service,” Ren had spoken graciously in spite of being body checked by his tiny wife, a restraining hand laid against his chest, “but my wife needs no champion now, save me. You are dismissed.”

Ren then found an opponent to his will in his bride. “No, indeed, sir. Knight Dameron is essential to my service, and will ensure my peace is upheld in Gascony when I am far from it at your side.”

Ren’s dark, winged brows had drawn together at her defiance, and his bottom lip jutted out a little as he glowered in a manner which was most disturbing to his young wife’s chasteness of mind and body. Such imaginings that brooding look provoked! He seemed to hover whether to physically enforce his will, before capitulating growling, “Very well, madame wife, if only for the peace of Gascony.”

It was clear, the two would never be friends.

It was Poe who had promoted the idea of an archery contest in the palace gardens after dinner, knowing full well his countess’s skill with the bow, having taught her himself.

When she won against the five gentlemen she was matched against, he then began to brag about her competence with a warbow, much to his protege’s embarrassment and the further irritation of her husband.

Louis and Leia’s amusement at the princess’s son’s discomfiture was self evident, and they too began to call for a demonstration of this weapon, adding to the clamour of the assembled courtiers - principally the five gentlemen who had already been bested. 

Poe sent a squire scurrying to retrieve it.

Peeping through her lashes, Rey perceived her husband’s face wearing that same glowering look. Tonight she would go to him and allow him to administer such punishment upon her as he saw fit, to atone for her knight’s presumption. 

She began to fidget, her cheeks bearing a blush which had nothing to do with Poe’s loud partisanship and everything to do with what form such chastisement would take - given she now knew how well he was armed.

The bow arrived and was placed in her hands. She notched one end of the bowstring and trod on the lower limb to bend it in order to secure it to the upper notch. This act alone caused an appreciative murmur to pass through the watching courtiers.

The bow she was going to use required a draw weight of 90 pounds per square inch, being an intermediary bow normally given to young men to practice before they tried for the six foot longbow.

Louis sat forward in his chair, determined not to miss a single thing. Leia sat back looking perfectly relaxed, her shrewd eyes not missing a trick.

The target was moved back to the farthest point on the green sward upon which they were standing, under the shade of some chestnut trees, their dense overhang casting deep shade over it. The countess seemed unperturbed, though the courtiers were now crowding her a little. Poe made himself busy as marshal.

Rey selected three bodkin tipped arrows, two of which she stuck into the ground by their needle sharp tips, the third she nocked. All shuffling and jockeying for position ceased as she began to draw, the bow’s heartwood bending to her strength as both her arms extended to their fullest in the classic archer’s pose. An appreciative gasp sounded.

She lowered the bow from its upward trajectory and brought it to bear on the target and loosed the arrow. It left the bow with a sibilant whoosh, the bowstring vibrating, a collective ‘ahhh’ breathed out by the spectators. Almost before the first arrow reached its target a second was loosed, and then a third, Rey plucking them from the earth at her feet. Three successive dull thuds were heard and then a great cheer went up, it looked as though all three had hit the bullseye.

Two servants were despatched to carry the target back to the sight of Louis, and it was found that indeed, all three arrows lay within a hairsbreadth of its fellows. 

Poe was voluble in his praise, both of his pupil and of himself as her instructor.

Rey handed the bow over to him and turned to find her husband, Poe currently commanding the attention of all present. Her eyes found him, standing a little way off conducting an intense conversation with a black haired woman. Rey’s heart stuttered. That the two were intimately acquainted was evident. The woman had both hands on his chest, her body pressed close to his, hip to hip, her head tilted back as though in expectation of being kissed.

Something old and ugly stirred in Rey’s breast and she quickly turned away, the better to control herself. She knew a desire to snatch the bow from Poe’s hands and bury an arrow deep into the woman’s soft flesh.

What the fate of her bridegroom would be she had not yet determined.

Before her angry eyes, the woman was peeled off of him, those big hands of his encompassing her shoulders and holding her off. Whatever words he spoke to her were lost to the breeze, but the tone he spoke in reached her ears and it was harsh.

The woman didn’t give a lot away by her expression, except when she glanced to where Rey stood, her hands curled into fists. Then there was a look of sly triumph, briefly breaking eye contact to direct a flickering look toward Kylo Ren before her eyes once more met Rey’s.

This look was unfathomable, but subsequently the woman turned toward the palace, drawing her skirts close as if not wanting to soil them, the insult clear and direct. Rey stepped forward with a snarled, “Why you ...” on her lips.

“Ah, Lady Netal,” Leia’s soft drawl was spoken at Rey’s elbow, her hand finding and rubbing one of the bride’s clenched fists until it unfurled. “Snoke’s creature, of course. If she dares approach Ben publicly, I’m guessing my son is recalled. I didn’t think he would be long let off the leash.”

“Ben?” Rey’s tone was puzzled. Leia’s great dark eyes turned toward her. “We have much to share, you and I, daughter, but look, here’s my son wanting speech with you. We will have plenty of time to share Skywalker family secrets in the days ahead, if I’m not mistaken.”

With these words Leia drew off as Ren approached.

“ _Domina_ ,” Rey noticed at once the harshness of his voice but doubted it was truly meant for her. “A messenger has come and I must be private with him for a little while.” 

He began to fiddle with the hilt of his sword, clearly uncomfortable. Looking beyond her, she watched his face grow irritated. “Come, _domina_ , we need to find a private place.” He held out his hand and she willingly took it, in no doubt who had invaded his life of sight.

They walked toward the palace in the footsteps of Lady Netal, until he veered off and walked her down a series of shallow steps into an orchard. The fruit had been plucked, only windfalls scattered about the grass for birds and wasps to feast on gave evidence of the trees abundant summer bounty.

He led her under the shade of a particularly gnarled tree, its silver grey trunk and branches twisted and deformed with age. It still bore a canopy of leaves, and under this they took shelter from prying eyes.

He fidgeted now, unsure how to begin. In a sudden rush of boldness she walked forward and encircled her arms about his waist, turning her face to press her cheek against his velvet tunic. There, her ear caught his steady heartbeat as she pressed as close as she could, hands flat against his back above the long, lethal looking dagger he wore crossbody attached to the back of his belt.

There was no hesitation on his part. His own arms encircled her shoulders, dropping his head into her hair, cursing gently as one of the combs scratched his chin. She giggled, shoulders lightly shaking. “Monster,” he breathed, removing this weapon from her braids and jabbing it beside its twin.

It didn’t hurt, not really, but she whined out, “Ow,” just because.

“You are well served,” came his unsympathetic growl as he rested his chin on her head again. Peace descended broken only by the sound of birds and the buzzing of wasps and bees. In the distance could be heard the sound of the court and the occasional ‘hurrah’. Poe, she guessed, taking on all comers in an impromptu archery contest.

In spite of her partisan championing of him, she really must reward him. He longed to marry the Lady Zorri, this she knew, but was but a poor knight. She would release him from his service and bestow upon him a rich manor, then he could approach Lady Zorri’s kinsmen and make an honourable offer. She would keep him nominally as Champion, and with this office, having her ear and the ear of Kylo Ren, surely his suit would be successful.

“ _Domina_ ,” she drew her thoughts back to the present, “I am recalled and must cut our nuptials short.” She crooked her fingers and dug them into his back, wishing for bare skin so she could dig her nails into the pale expanse of his back and rake them down. He’d learn not to joke with her then. She told him as much.

“ _Domina,_ , it is no joke. My mentor summons me. I have to believe he would not do so unless there was good reason. My mother will be with you to journey into Gascony. I will send for you as soon as I may.”

It took him many minutes to ease the storm unleashed against him, to reassure her it was not because they had not consummated their union. That he didn’t intend to repudiate her. That she wasn’t too young, there only being a year between them.

“Then why? Why must you obey Baron Snoke. Why are you not yet king and instead order Baron Snoke to go hither and thither as _you wish?”_

“You don’t understand,” he gritted out, his embarrassment piquing his anger, for was not this his mother’s constant lament.

“True, I do not. Explain it to me, please. How is it I, a countess, have the ordering of my own destiny yet you do not but must do as an inferior bids? Say it to me. Tell me.”

He let her go then, stomping up and down, kicking venomously at any fruit which dared impede his way. She watched, leaning against the tree’s trunk dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose. At last he turned to her.

“I can’t tell you all of the mistakes of the past, it would take too long and I doubt we’ll be left much longer undisturbed, but know this, without Snoke I would be nothing. He has taught me how to take back what is my own, fight for what should belong to me. If I am not crowned, well that is my error. I need to listen, to be obedient, to be better. I will have the crown, he has promised, when I am ready. When I am worthy to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps.”

“Worthy! Your grandfather!” She couldn’t keep the scornful disbelief out of her voice. His face darkened. For once it didn’t awaken carnal longing in her.

“I became countess at fourteen and who was there to tell me I was worthy or not? Who would have dared? I am an hereditary ruler and that no man may gainsay.”

He sneered at her now. “Yes, a countess, the holder of a mere county.”

Her own temper spiked, “Yes,” she hissed, “a county so rich it delivered 5,000 marks to your Baron Snoke in payment of my dowry - or rather it will. And how much, m’sieur, will line your pockets, mmm, mmm? Very little, I’m guessing. Tell me, how much will your Baron Snoke yield to you of _our_ fortune?”

The answer was self-evident and Rey’s heart churned with sympathy for her noble husband, diminished only by his dependency on Baron Snoke’s approbation.

“ _Mon amour,_ ” his eyes were raised quickly to hers at the endearment, “you must do as you wish, but not a silver penny will Gascony give to Snoke. My dowry stays in my treasury in Bordeaux, except for the thousand marks I will give directly to you. It is my will, I have spoken it, so shall it be. I am loyal to you, not to Baron Snoke - or indeed to any other.”

“Sweetheart,” she was crushed against him, his lips finding hers. She was kissed with such ardour his wonderfully patrician nose dug into her cheek. She exulted.

Soon the cares of his situation reasserted themselves and he must leave her to go receive his visitor, one Armitage Hux.

“And who is this Hux? A duke, a prince, a mere Baron?”

His eyes were alight with laughter, “No love, you must lower your eyes, he is a knight.”

“Ah. Then you must make him mind his place.”

He had pulled her hand through his crooked arm and was leading her back to the palace and his mother, gazing affectionately down at her. Her mischievous smile was evident. She moved him in a way no other female had.

They parted friends, therefore, with the promise of one day being something more. As his steps drew him away from her, so the doubts and insecurities which plagued him crept back in. Could he really govern without Snoke? No, he didn’t think he could. Could he hold out indefinitely from taking what was his? No, he couldn’t. Even before his wife he had chafed against Snoke’s rule over him, not overtly, that was to invite disaster, but covertly, in his heart. Best to maintain the status quo, then. For the moment.

Rey, reunited with Leia and sequestered with her in her rooms, bid her mother tell her all the Skywalker history. That it could not be the work of hours was soon evident, weeks more like ... and even then. One thing was settled in her mind and heart; to keep such a husband and such a mother she would risk a great deal, even if it meant going to war with Snoke.


	2. The Green-Eyed Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve upped the chapter count by one. If you think the rating should be M for mature, please let me know.

**The Parting**

At supper she met Armitage Hux, tall, red-headed, and with a pasty face.

Although a knight, he had pretensions to greatness through his mother’s bloodline and was shortly smitten by the young countess, for no better reason than she treated him with only less disdain than a cockroach.

Since her manners toward him were exactly what he expected of a true noblewoman, (they being also the manners of his mother), he would have declared himself her man upon receiving her first rebuke had he not been dependent on Snoke to make his fortune.

He had been lax about paying her his courtesy, contemptuous of this slip of a girl; a fresh faced teenager with freckles. His manners were found fault with and he was sent away to come again and pay it properly. Before the amused eyes of the court, he did just that, going down on one knee before her to show his subjection.

The court held it’s breath, was he going to press a kiss to the hem of the countess’s garment? The gaggle of louche gentlemen about Knight Dameron placed a flurry of bets. Armitage Hux did not, in fact, go so far, and Poe found himself further impoverished.

Hux received a slight incline of the head as a token of forgiveness, and a place was made for him at the first table below high table. From this position of honour he could further admire the blue-blooded countess, and reflect how unworthy that crybaby Ren was of her.

Snoke had confided to him that soon he would have no need of Skywalker blood, and up to this moment Hux had decided he would ask for a rich estate and a full treasury in recompense for his service.

He now perceived that he had short changed himself. A rich French county was a more fitting reward, and the hand of its newly widowed countess. That the lady might object was a possibility; he therefore decided to speak of his mother’s people at every opportunity when in her company.

Snoke had declared that the countess’s presence in England was of no benefit to his plans, rather a hindrance. Armitage decided that that policy must be abandoned immediately. It was essential to have her near while he courted her, and if she objected to a quick remarriage so soon after being widowed, (for reasons he could quite understand), well, possession was nine-tenths of the law.

He ate a hearty supper and gazed worshipfully at the object of his desire.

He collared Ren immediately after supper, determined to keep him away from his future wife as much as possible. Eventually, even he ran out of stratagems and had to retire to bed, confident there would be no congress between Ren and the countess that night. As they intended to start for England early next day, he was more than ordinarily pleased with himself as he strode from Ren’s chamber to his own quarters, humming a cheerful refrain.

He did not see the little maid emerge behind him from a deep shadowed alcove as he passed on, silently scuttling on tiny slippered feet down a recently discovered back stairway; charged with bringing her mistress to her lord as soon she may.

Rey left her maids at the top of the stone steps, they pressing their hands against their mouths to stifle their giggles. Their interest in the opposite sex had been piqued by her marriage, and they were full of curiosity and sly wonderings.

She bid them good night and to hurry back to her quarters and bed. They curtsied as one, their arms about each other’s waists, chiming out, “As you wish my lady.” She was aware they had still not moved by the time she was halfway down the passageway, her ears picking up suppressed giggles.

She was perhaps two or three steps from her husband’s chamber door when it opened and disgorged a woman. One moreover, who was still drawing on her robe about her, her black hair hanging in a lustrous skein down her back. The door slammed shut on Lady Netal, for it was indeed she, almost clipping her heels.

Rey stood rooted to the spot as Bazine turned toward her, as startled as she, clutching the front of her robe together and trying to haul it up over one bare shoulder. Of the two, Bazine recovered her composure quicker.

She gave up trying to cover her nakedness, leaving the silk to drape seductively over one exquisitely rounded shoulder, lying low upon her breast. Rather, she used that hand to languidly brush through her hair, drawing attention to its sleek beauty.

As she walked forward, she paused when parallel with Rey, casting a supercilious glance at her over that exposed shoulder and uttering these mocking words, “Shame. Is the little bride wanting the comfort of her husband? Well, you can try, but I think you’ll find his appetite wanting. I do my work too well.”

A soft, mocking laugh and then she was on her way, leaving a stunned Rey gazing after her.

She saw her maids peeping around the wall of the stairwell, drawing back as Bazine approached and being at last obedient to her orders for they did not reappear. How long she stood rooted to the spot, whether seconds or minutes, she couldn’t after say. The image of a boastful Bazine standing _déshabillé_ in front of her was burned into her mind’s eye.

Then another image swam into view, that of a tall, well-built, well-hung man boasting that women would pay a fortune to take her place in the marriage bed. A fierce scowl replaced her expression of utter bewilderment and she turned on her heel determined on quite a different mission.

He had forgotten to bolt the door and it yielded easily under her hand. She had expected to find him sprawled in bed, exhausted by his debauchery. Instead he was standing by the fire drinking a glass of wine, dressed in his own robe. He swung around at the sound of the decisive click of the closing chamber door, his brow lifting and a look of absolute joy replacing his heavy frown.

“Sweetheart,” he uttered equally joyfully, putting down his wine glass hastily and starting toward her, quite missing that she had rolled back one of the wide silk sleeves of her negligee and was winding up her right fist. He dodged the first blow, it sailing past his ear, her body slamming into him as she’d put her full weight behind it.

Stymied, she dropped the leather wallet she was holding in her left hand and tried for an uppercut. Again he dodged, but she had the pleasure of tweaking the end of his nose. Her wrists now captive, she tried to knee him where he lived. He managed to turn away, but she did land a partial dead leg causing him to stumble a little. It seemed he was too good a street fighter for her to succeed in causing him physical harm, and he being too tall to successfully head butt, she gave it up - for now.

“ _Lit-tle hellcat_ ,” he panted out, for she was as strong of body as she was of mind and it had cost him something in the expenditure of energy to subdue her. “She-wolf! Going by your evil looks, why you’d geld me with my own dagger given the chance.”

“That I would,” her own breath panted out, “and fry them for my supper.”

“Unnatural wife! What have I done to incur such spleen? Am I not your loving lord?”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You say that to me, when not a minute since you come fresh from bedding your dark-haired strumpet?”

His frown cleared and he remarked with breathtaking indifference, “Oh, the Lady Bazine. She need not trouble you, heart.” At that he released her, clearly believing he had done enough to placate his murderously jealous wife.

At once she darted around him, heading for the table where lay his weapons. Drawing the dagger from its sheath she held it before her, its wicked nine inch blade turned on him, the grip half as long and bound with leather, the pommel wrought in gold.

“Ah-ha, I have you now, pretty boy. Let me mar those handsome looks of yours and see how your strumpet likes you then!”

He gazed at her, an unblinking stare, and a thought flitted through her mind that perhaps she’d gone too far. She then recalled with perfect clarity the look and words of Bazine and so was fortified in her resolve. An intolerable insult had been paid her and before her was its progenitor. She adjusted her stance, awaiting his attack.

She was disconcerted as her husband began to back toward the chamber door. “Stand fast, coward,” she challenged, taking a pace forward herself, the pommel of the dagger pressed against her breast.

Keeping his eyes on her lest she rush him, Ren drew the bolts on the door, locking them in. She adjusted her stance again, readying herself for imminent attack, her eyes narrowed, fully concentrating on the task ahead.

Ren began to untie the broad sash securing his robe, which parted showing his broad muscular chest, waist and legs, and that other part she’d tried to injure. The last time she’d seen it it had been relatively benign, it now showed a disposition of aggression.

She straightened from her crouch, the arm holding the dagger dropping to her side. “Wh-what are you doing?” her voice warbled with uncertainty causing her to wince with annoyance.

His voice was silky in reply, the tone implacable.

“You have challenged me to a duel, wife. Ordinarily, I would get to choose the time and place and weapon, but I’ll indulge you this once.”

His robe was off his back by now, flung over the bed, the sash being slowly wound around his left hand.

It was one thing, she found, to face down a clothed husband, and quite another to face a naked one. Especially when one was a virgin not used to seeing male genitalia standing quite so proud as Ren’s, or indeed used to seeing male genitalia at all. It bobbed about as he moved in a most distracting manner. She tried to keep her eyes on Ren’s face, really she did, but the appendage was causing havoc with her concentration, it seeming to have a life all of its own.

“Wh-what trick is this,” she demanded, wishing for another door to magically appear through which she would undoubtably run.

“No trick, wife, but if I’m to wrestle you to the ground as I disarm you, it’s best done without the hindrance of clothes.” The swine was grinning at her now, a most disturbing expression in his eyes. It’s effect upon her body was instantaneous and mortifying.

He rushed her. Never had she suspected he could move so fast. Why, she hadn’t time to raise the knife, which he removed from her grasp by simply knocking it away with his bound fist. Was it then really necessary to affix those plush lips of his to hers, drawing a wanton moan from her? To raise his head and look down upon her, causing her hands to lose their grip in his silken hair?

Was it necessary to visit upon her the indignity of being hoisted over his shoulder and flung on the bed so hard she bounced?

She was about to protest such treatment when his body covered hers - his naked body, mind you, and bestowed such kisses as to make her lose her senses. Somehow her robe was removed, and so also her linen chemise, by her deft handed spouse. Before she could inquire how he had acquired such skill, his hands and mouth were upon her breasts inciting the inevitable neediness between her legs.

There was no need to fear him now, rather she gave herself freely. Had the dagger been plunged into the headboard, she would have grasped the hilt as her back arched, the better to anchor herself as powerful sensations ripped through her body and she called out his name, his true name.

Lying in his arms afterwards, her sweaty body cooling, her flushed face and décolletage gradually ceasing their burning, his hands brushed back the tendrils of hair which clung to her face and neck, and he explained about Hux and Bazine.

In truth, it was hard to care, such delicious lassitude possessing her body, except she must, for the survival of her husband and her house depended on it. Yawning and burrowing further into his embrace, she understood that Hux would take him away upon the morrow and Lady Bazine would try to bed him if she could, to put him in thrall to her the better to do Snoke’s bidding.

She wouldn’t succeed, for now he had the antidote to her charms, right here in his arms, and as he now carried the image of her in his heart, even when parted from her he had the cure for any and all spells cast against him.

Why go to so much trouble, she sleepily enquired, she could have Hux killed on the morrow and Bazine sent to some suitably remote convent. He chuckled, the deep vibration causing her to lift herself from his chest and stare at him inquiringly. “Good, lord, you’re serious.”

“Well, of course,” she lightly shrugged her shoulders before once more collapsing against his chest, “it is the work of a moment. Poe needs only a word from me and it is done. Louis will look the other way, I guarantee it.”

“Why you bloodthirsty little ... as tempting as that offer is, my love, I still need Snoke and must return as he has requested.”

“No, no you don’t. Need him that is. Your subservience to him works against you. He acts in your name and causes men to curse you while they come to terms with him, believing him to be more worthy of the crown. Your arms are of the lion but you act like the leopard and betray men to your own interest. Snoke encourages this and you are not trusted whereas he is. You undermine yourself at his behest, not comprehending it is to his benefit.”

“My mother,” he gritted out, interrupting her, for these were the counsels of his mother. “Well, isn’t that grand, my own wife turned against me.” He shoved her off him and swung himself out of bed, going and pouring himself a glass of wine. He turned toward her, preparing for counter arguments.

She was fast asleep, curled up around herself in the manner of a cat. His face softened and he took a step forward the better to gaze at her. His foot struck against something. Looking down, he saw the leather wallet she had dropped in order to punch with her left hand. His lips twisted in a smile at such a fond remembrance. He bent and picked it up.

Putting down his wine glass, he opened the fine Moroccan leather pouch, a vellum document was enclosed, folded into three parts. Intrigued, he unfolded it. There was his wife’s seal, a hawk with wings unfurled and a wreath of oak leaves above its head.

The other seal was unfamiliar. He examined it closely by means of the flickering candlelight. It was of the Guild of Goldsmiths, Paris. His breath caught and he read what was written above the seals.

His wife, his feral little goblin, had arranged a letter of credit with the Parisian guild, to be drawn upon its sister guild in London, to the sum of two thousand marks. His eyes began to water and his breath to hitch. Carefully refolding the precious document, made more precious by the devotion which had caused it to be writ, he concealed it in its leather pouch, placing it carefully upon the tabletop.

Sliding under the bedclothes, he coaxed her from her protective huddle by means of soothing words and softly prodding fingers, entreating her to come cuddle him. With a moan of irritation she allowed herself to be gathered to him, promptly burrowing in closer. He wrapped himself around her, closing his eyes but with his mind ablaze. He had a lot to reflect upon.

He awoke to faint scratching, as though mice were running through the walls. Sloughing off the shroud of sleep, he listened intently and realised it was coming from behind the chamber door. Uncurling himself from around his wife, he groped for his robe and tied it haphazardly around him. Picking up his dagger, he drew back the bolts and opened the door a crack.

Three little maids stood there, with ferocious scowls on their faces - though the composure of one broke at the sight of his partly exposed chest. She cupped her mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking with repressed mirth. For this she received sibilant shushes from the other two and had her arms pinched for good measure. It seemed there may be retaliation visited upon her companions so he hastily spoke up, not wanting to get in the middle of a cat fight, “Well, you’d better come in, the better to serve your mistress.”

At his word all three tumbled past him, and he shook his head, out of his depth in this overtly female world. Thankfully, all his dogs were hounds - he had an idea he’d need to seek out the company of those blessed like himself with testicles in the coming years for allies. By the time he’d stepped into the hallway to check it was clear and stepped back in, securing the chamber door, the three had their mistress seated on the edge of the bed and were pulling her chemise over her head, evidently used to prising her from sleep, for she slept deep ... and snored.

Bleary eyed she stood before him, robe on and prepared to return to her own quarters before the palace was properly astir. He took her tenderly in his arms, bestowing a lovely kiss, noting her breath was slightly sour. No matter, he was sure his was too and kissed her deeply and bid her both good morrow and adieu. She returned his pleasantries sleepily, shuffling toward the door.

“Sweetheart,” she turned back. “Thank you,” he turned his eyes to the table where the wallet lay. She blushed reaching out her hand, their fingertips touching in affectionate farewell.

The three maids followed her out, all three now wearing expressions of benign tolerance. He breathed out a long breath of relief.


	3. The Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for posting this so late. On Saturday I rucked my back lifting something and spent four days in agonising pain. Now I’m just in pain. I hope it’s ok. The chapter count has increased by one.

**The Daughters of Eve**

It was very hard to take formal public leave of her husband, but Rey understood that she must be careful of showing what attachment she already had for him before the eyes of Armitage Hux. Bazine would no doubt make report, but it was the opinion of Hux that would prevail. Snoke would brook no rival for control of Kylo Ren.

To that end, she merely wished her lord well, and safe journey, and granted him her hand to kiss. She saw his look of annoyance, for he had not had chance to change her wedding band. Surreptitiously, she touched his cheek with her right hand to let him know she felt no spleen. She felt gentle pressure as he leaned into her caress.

To Hux she granted a small incline of the head as he mouthed his gratitude for her hospitality, her kindly notice of him, etcetera, etcetera. This chilly means of approbation seemed to send him into stratospheric delight, much to the amusement of Louis and the courtiers gathered about, and to the rich enjoyment of Poe. 

Teasing Hux was proving to be Poe’s favourite pastime in all the world - in the absence of flirtation with the Lady Zorri.

Then they were gone, Bazine trailing in their wake with such knights as could be spared for her escort; Kylo indifferent to her well-being, and she, in Hux’s opinion, of the lowest of the low. As sight of them was lost to the winding streets of Paris, there was nothing for it but to retire to her room and weep copious tears on the bosom of her _belle-mere_.

It was pointless to stay for the week of wedding festivities, her bridegroom being gone and Gascony waiting on the return of its countess, so Rey paid Louis’ comptroller for the public and court feasting to continue in her absence and turned her face toward home.

She took formal leave of Louis, who had privately promised support - he too wished Kylo Ren to stay at home under the influence of his wife and not wander abroad at the behest of Baron Snoke. War was destructive and expensive, and Kylo Ren was skilled in the art of it and led by the nose, it seemed, by Snoke. Rey thanked him for his offer of support, understanding it was predicated on them having shared goals.

She had travelled quickly from Bordeaux to Paris, but was slowed down on the return journey by the presence of Leia, who must journey in a litter.

Tied to what she regarded as a snail’s pace, Rey grew visibly impatient and irritable, longing to let Jakku lengthen his stride to canter or gallop, to cover the ground rapidly and not to amble on or at best trot. On the third day, Leia, well aware of her daughter’s barely concealed irritability, urged her to exercise the tall chestnut and run ahead, waiting at some convenient point for the slower moving baggage train and litter to catch up.

Rey bit her bottom lip, now aware that she had been less than courteous to her mother-in-law by imperfectly concealing her frustration, and begged her pardon. Leia, as solicitous as ever, continued to urge her to travel at a pace more suited to her high spirits. After consulting with Poe and dividing the escort equally, she bid Leia adieu and turned Jakku’s head for home, Poe at her side and her three maids closely following - her knights as rearguard.

Oh, how good it was to gallop, the fields on either side empty of peasants as the harvest was safe brought in and the busy threshing floor yielded the fruit of their labour, and before them the open road. The miles passed quickly by.

Jakku was showing a sheen of sweat, his breath expelled in angry sounding snorts, so she slowed to a walk exchanging laughing pleasantries with Poe. The cobwebs blown away, and with them her ill-humour, guilt began to set in and she began to express remorse over her neglect of Leia and her own selfishness.

Poe, knowing her as he did, suggested they make their way back, the edge now taken off the horses boisterousness. She readily agreed, sending her maids ahead to the Chateau where they were to make an overnight stay, further depleting her escort. Turning back, they set their horses in a long, loping canter, dropping back from time to time to a trot to spare them.

Ahead was a small wood, the road running through it. The autumn colours had delighted them when they first passed through, the leaves falling whisper soft upon their hats and between their horses ears and thence to the ground, causing them to slow their pace to a walk and delight in the novelty. It was surprising that Leia had not yet negotiated her way through it. Had some mischance befallen one of the wagons?

Drawing ever closer, there was heard the clash of metal upon metal from deep within the wood. The sound of conflict? Certainly no woodcutter’s axe could replicate that sound. They briefly pulled up, listening intently.

Poe turned a grim face toward her, “ _Domina_ , for your safety, turn back and seek refuge at the Chateau.” Rey didn’t answer. Glancing at the stubborn set of her face, he sighed and spoke again, _”Domina,_.” She looked at him then, prepared to order him to be silent. He was holding a mace out to her. Giving a grim smile she took it, slipping the leather thong over her wrist and gathering up her reins with one hand. Jakku, sensing imminent battle and anxious to participate, moved restlessly under her.

The flurry of activity about her ceased, Poe now had his shield upon his arm, sword drawn. The knights and squires about them similarly prepared. Poe nodded and she stood in her stirrups bellowing out the Palpatine war cry: “à moi, à moi, à Palpatine.” At the touch of her heels to his flanks Jakku leapt forward, as eager for the fight as his mistress, Poe thundering at her side.

Leia’s principal bodyguard, a giant of a man named Chewie, had gotten his mistress and her ladies safe behind him, their backs protected by a thick thornbush. Such female domestics as were with them were clinging to the skirt of their mistress and her ladies, kneeling and crying out in terror. Leia’s poorly armed menservants did what they could with dagger or fallen tree branch wielded as a cudgel, but Chewie was the main defence, swinging a long handled double bladed battle axe.

He was keeping their assailants at bay, but, needing two hands to swing it, he was without a shield and some wounds had been inflicted upon him. Only the scything motion of the eighteen inch blades stood between him and being overwhelmed. He was, however, weakening from blood loss. If he went down, then Leia too would be lost.

It was to this group Rey headed at full gallop, swinging the mace to great and terrible effect, her voice raised in bloodlust, “à Palpatine, à Palpatine.” It was as if one of the furies had been unleashed upon the world of men to bring about their destruction, with Jakku her unholy mount savagely biting and lashing out and proving himself a true steed of Le Perche.

Few though they were, due to their unexpected arrival and before the savagery of their assault, the aggressors were soon overwhelmed, a very few managing to escape on horseback, and a tally was taken. Two of her knights were lost and all the rest bore wounds. They had fought valiantly, however, prepared to sell their lives dear.

When the reckoning was made, including those who had ridden off, the attacking force seemed to have numbered forty persons, all well armed. At first Poe and Rey thought they were dealing with a free company, imported mercenaries abandoned by the English and living mainly by predation of small towns and villages until some great lord rode out to cull their numbers or move them on.

Making a search of the living for concealed weapons, livery badges were found, made of alabaster and depicting a sixteen-rayed symbol within a hexagon. On one of their number the livery badge was made of silver gilt. Poe made the assumption that this was the cadre’s captain. While they were puzzling as to whose livery it could be, Leia trod over from where she had been comforting her people and took the badge from Poe’s hand, Chewie was by her side.

“This,” she said with great solemnity, Chewie nodding his great head with its leonine mane in anticipation of her next words, “is the livery badge of Baron Snoke. These men are in the service of Simon Snoke and sworn to carry out his will - even to the murder of Kylo Ren’s mother.”

Rey looked at her aghast. “Then this was no mischance, but these rogues came upon you by intent?” Leia nodded, with Chewie again anticipating her words, “So I believe.” She turned her eyes upon the captain, “Speak, you, was I your mark?” She received only sullen faced silence as her answer.

Rey, thinking rapidly, assumed they had been tracked, perhaps by a single person, two at most else they had been noticed, the scout bringing up his fellows as soon as he saw the escort about Leia diminished.

She would not put it down to her fault for how could she have known?, but she would go about more cautiously from this day; meanwhile ... “Well,” commented Rey, interrupting the subsequent discussion, her tone brooking no argument, “whether you were or whether you weren’t, we will shortly lose the light, and as the moon is in the final quarter must not be caught on the road in the dark.”

Her given orders were brief and obeyed without question, the wagons loaded with servants and wounded, the free company captain trussed up like a Christmas goose and thrown onto the bare boards of a wagon, the rest of his band bound and tied to the cart’s tail with orders to keep up or be dragged along. Leia, observing her new daughter’s decisiveness, the alacrity with which she was obeyed, adjusted her thinking regarding the possible management of her. The countess of Gascony, she concluded, knew her own mind; it was best to try to influence her thinking and not try to dictate it.

Rey’s penultimate order was to the grooms to drive the riderless horses before them, stirrups folded over the saddle and reins secured so as not to encumber. Then she issued her final order. Sitting tall in the saddle, her eyes observing that all had been done in accord with her will, she bellowed, “Move out.” Whips cracked, the horses shoulders strained against harness, and the cavalcade moved forward under the watchful oversight of its lady.

Due to the concern of her senior man at arms escorting her maids, and her maids piteous pleadings, the lord of the chateau sallied forth heavily armed, his way lit by torches in the hands of his soldiery, and met them on the road bringing them safely within his jurisdiction. A tale was given of falling foul of a free company. He, mortified that they had had to resort to arms on his demesne, promised the area would be scoured the next day and every stranger forced to account for themselves.

Rey, at least, felt a little guilty, for he continually apologised, bowing low before her, but she had the reassurance that if any of Snoke’s minions regrouped and continued to stalk them, the m’sieur before her would deal robustly with them. She left the captain and his companions to his tender mercies to assuage his mortification.

Privately it was the understanding between them that Hux had arranged the assassination attempt upon learning of the burgeoning closeness of Leia and Rey, something not hid from the court and likely reported to him by Bazine. Simon Snoke had established a long while ago that Leia was his implacable enemy.

Did he but know it, mused Leia, her daughter-in-law was likely to cause him more trouble than she ever could on her own behalf. Ensconced once more in her chateau, perched on a high cliff overlooking her capital city, Bordeaux, Leia had further opportunity to observe Rey’s imperious rule over Gascony, tempered by a genuine love for her people and a determination to do right by them.

Leia could relate the Skywalker history and the genesis of Snoke’s power, but Rey’s true confidantes were her Archbishop, Lor San Tekka, who ruled in her absences, her Treasurer, Dopheld Mitaka, and of course Poe, her Champion.

About mid-October, a slight crease could be observed between the young countess’s brows. Only Rey knew the cause, though those in her inner circle could guess, her lord had not sent for her and seemed as in thrall to Snoke as ever.

One paltry love letter had been received, forwarded by the London Guild of Goldsmiths.

By mid-November the permanent frown had disappeared and an expression of belligerent determination had replaced it.

A second paltry love letter lay in her jewellery casket, bound to the first by a ribbon.

By mid-December, Leia and Chewie had been settled in the care of a poor knight domiciled in the heart of Gascony, far from Bordeaux, glad of the prestige and wealth bestowed upon him for the care and lodging of his countess’s mother-in-law. Leia went quietly, realising a more powerful player had stepped onto the stage to (hopefully) deliver the house of Skywalker from its past errors.

Rey did not act out of spite, enjoying excellent relations with her mother-in-law, but she had noticed that Leia had a tendency to gravitate toward power and the exercise thereof. Gascony had a ruler, and the name of the ruling house was Palpatine not Skywalker. Also, not least, since the second night of Rey’s nuptials, Leia had developed a ritual of tucking the young bride up in bed, smoothing back her hair and bestowing a loving kiss to her forehead. Lingering until her daughter’s eyes closed in sleep.

Rey had circumvented Leia’s fond mothering when her lord was present through the agency of her maids; she did not wish to resort to such stratagems every night when reunited with him. Where before she had been content with her virgin state, the knowledge she now possessed of her lord’s body had awoken _needs_ in her. She did not _need_ Leia cock-blocking them. Of this she was absolutely, ruthlessly, convinced.

So, in mid-December she handed power temporarily to her Archbishop and embarked on a Gascon merchant ship to try her fortune in England; she did not do her husband the courtesy of informing him of her coming.

It was the first time she had crossed water; it was also the season of rough seas and sharp breezes. Unlike the majority of her household and soldiery, the countess proved herself an excellent sailor, striding about on deck wrapped in a heavy military cloak learning the parts of the ship and sailor-speak, even taking her turn at the wheel steering the great ship through the swells, much to the captain and crew’s admiration.

She admonished her people to imitate her and come up on deck and observe the ship’s bows ploughing the vast grey waters, the sails cracking, the metal lanyards jangling, hemp rope and wooden planking straining against the forces brought to bear against them.

Incontinent, some cursed to her face her unseemly _bonhomie_ , at which she took no offence but instead read them a homily on how they at least could vomit whereas the poor, darling horses could not. They should therefore give thanks and rise above their seasickness. She omitted to mention that the horses were lodged in the deepest bowels of the ship, where the rocking and heaving was felt least. As a valediction, she quoted at them a rhyme oft quoted by her grandfather:

_Blow, blow thou winter wind,  
Thou art not as unkind  
as man’s ingratitude._

So quoting, she swung herself hand over fist up the companion way and left them to their misery, she feasting on bread and cheese and spicy sausage, washed down with claret drunk straight from the bottle, ready to take her turn once more at the wheel.

It was with salt encrusted hair, therefore, and roses blooming on her cheeks courtesy of the biting east wind, that she stood off from the Thames estuary waiting on the tide, as happy as she’d ever been, promising to invest more time and money in her merchant marine much to the delight of the captain and crew. At last the tide was flooding and they made stately progress up the river toward London, the gonfalon of her house fluttering bravely from the main mast.

Borrowing the captain’s eyeglass, she noted the rich, abundant meadows of Essex on the north shore and those of Kent on the south, which gave way in turn to Middlesex and Surrey and then to the Port of London, busy with commerce. She could appreciate Snoke wanting dominion over this land, doing away with the true heir if he must, but was determined rather to wrest it from him - and gain possession too of the large, handsome, pretty-eyed man whose wedding band she wore.

“Are you well, _domina_?” She heard the captain’s solicitous enquiry, not realising her face had scrunched up in a ferocious scowl. Smoothing out her features, she assured him she was and took care to cultivate a neutral expression henceforth, it wouldn’t do to give away her innermost feelings.

She did not await the disembarkation of her household goods and the abundance of Gascon goodness brought with her, even the geese destined for her Christmas table, but smoothed down her hair, put on her hat and furs, and departed with Poe for Duke William’s tower, built to safely house his beloved wife, the only person in all the world who could stamp her foot at him and yet live.

She had fulfilled her own promises to Poe, settling upon him land and wealth. The lady Zorri’s kinsmen had approved the match, but it seemed the lady herself had raised objections. What these were were unknown except between the two lovers, but a subdued Poe returned to take his place by his mistress’s side, the high spirits which characterised him, and meant he was inevitably at the heart of any devilment, gone.

Her heart ached for him, but who was she to give advice, her own status currently in doubt? She heaved heavy sighs for the both of them.

The Constable of the Tower was mortified. The royal apartments were in poor repair, not fit for the great lady standing before him to inhabit; for clearly she was a great lady in spite of her tender years. He found her wonderfully understanding, so much so he cast all his burdens upon her young shoulders.

Baron Snoke was miserly, expecting them to loyally hold London against his enemies, but he not loyal to them. The soldiers wages were in arrears, parts of the tower in disrepair - why even the horses had not enough fodder.

She had heard enough, sitting down at a table still dressed in her hat and furs she called for the accounts to be brought to her; her clerk of the treasury sitting wan and trembling beside her still fighting off the ill effects of the voyage. Around her floors were being swept and strewn anew with fresh rushes garnished with sprigs of lavender and flowers of camomile, as she totted up the neat columns of numbers.

Her treasure chest was opened and the requisite sum withdrawn and a pay parade called. She sat at a table in the courtyard, her clerk showing the men where to make their mark as, from her own hands and with a gracious smile, she paid them what was owed - for the relief of them and their families.

She would take the ledgers to bed with her, she informed the overwhelmed Constable, and establish how much was owed to tradesmen, then tomorrow they would walk the ramparts and all the domestic offices and see what repairs and improvements needed to be made. The overburdened man burst into tears of gratitude, which caused the sympathetic countess to lightly pat his shoulder in a sustaining way.

Some of the tradesmen tried to cheat her as she settled their accounts, but she had to hand a minute breakdown of what was owed and would not pay even a penny more. These were escorted out by the Constable’s men, given to understand she would deal with more honest fellows in the future. 

She then invited the head of the London Goldsmiths Guild to come visit, and subsequent to this sent out her first invitations to dine to the merchants of London. She did not reach out to the nobility knowing they had too much to lose if they incurred Snoke’s wrath. The merchant class, however, no-one could afford to alienate - not even Snoke.

The wealth of her county was built on trade, chiefly the export of fine wine, and talking trade was second nature to her. She soon had their respect, and by the time Christmas Eve came was settled comfortably enough to have arranged a great banquet to honour them and had ridden to St. Paul’s, Christmas Day, for Mass. She attracted a great deal of attention riding forth, having revived the custom of feeding the poor at the gate and giving alms for the provision of firewood for them, a blessing being called on her name as she rode through the streets to church.

Word of her coming spread - it reached her husband shortly after she had celebrated New Year with a banquet and revels.

While his wife was making friends and influencing people in London, Kylo Ren was conducting a desultory siege of a northern nobleman who had rebelled over Snoke’s further imposition of taxes. He had been ordered to it, given sole charge, as punishment for not bringing the expected dowry with him. Snoke had not even tried to be ingratiating, but had sneered at him, telling him he had been bested by ‘a slip of a girl’.

His own temper had spiked, threatening to spill over, but since Rey he had realised how precarious his situation was. Rey was right, his mother had been right, he’d handed over too much power - to much everything - and now he was a man holding a wolf by the ears. That the wolf had not directly turned on him when he came back empty handed was debatable.

Clearly, Snoke had some long-term strategy in mind, and by the simpering, triumphant look on Hux’s face, his own longevity was not part of it. All in all, he was glad to get away from the pair of them, even if it meant freezing his balls off in sub-zero temperatures in this northern wilderness. His temper was nevertheless foul.

So when his body squire timidly asked him when their relief would come, he fixed the lad with a baleful stare and asked him what had that to do with anything? “Well,” stammered the lad, “the missus being in London and all.” Kylo stared at him, “The missus is in London,” he parroted. “Yes,“ the lad answered back, totally misunderstanding, “so do we wait for relief or do we go shortly?”

“The missus is in London,” Kylo repeated blankly.

“Why, yes, my lord,” the youth shifted uneasily, his lord’s blank stare unnerving him.

“Pack it all up,” his master stood abruptly, “the whole lot. We leave within the hour and we’re not coming back.” 

His squire scuttled off, immeasurably relieved to get away unscathed. Kylo stood for several minutes staring into the burning coals of the brazier warming his tent, “The missus is in London,” he repeated, then shook himself and strode off to hand management of the siege to some poor fellow. Not that he cared one whit whether it succeeded or not.

He was on the road within the hour, his thoughts swirling as hard as the snow falling upon him from the heavens. What would his reception be in London? How would he greet his heedless wife; with a kiss or with a scolding? How would she greet him? What did it mean that she came without telling him?

“Gah!” he shouted into the wind and dug his spurs into Tie’s flanks, urging him on at a truly breakneck speed.

It was twelfth night by the time he drew up before The Tower’s heavily studded oaken gates, clouds of steam rising from the tired, sweating horse, both man and beast pushed to the limits of endurance. Then, to his annoyance, there was the business of trying to gain entry, it being known he was Simon Snoke’s man.

Eventually someone was despatched to inquire of ‘The Lady’ as to whether he should be admitted, or not. His status as The Lady’s husband conferring no status at all, it seemed. He grit his teeth and set his jaw, both he and Tie rapidly cooling as the marrow freezing breeze from the river dug icy fingers into them both, which promised to do neither of them any good.

At last, with the rattle of the key in the lock and the lifting up of the bracing bar, with the sharp crack of numerous bolts being drawn back and an accompanying creak and groan, the great gates slowly opened, each being so heavy it required two men - one to push and one to pull - to fully open. Duke William had ever a care for the safety of his precious wife.

By this time the rest of his household had arrived and both he and Tie were shivering with cold. He walked Tie forward, following the lantern bearing guard to the stable block; the unmistakable sound of good cheer coming from the tower itself, each window in a large section of it showing a light.

There was the scent of new sawn wood in the stables, and of pitch, the sort that sealed a roof, as well as fragrant hay and the earthy scent of straw. The stable was sealed tight against the winter blast, a lantern burning every few feet warming the still air. He saw Jakku, his wife’s tall chestnut Percheron, lipping hay from a net, perfectly indifferent to him apart from emitting a low, warning nicker as he passed with Tie, who gave an answering aggressive snort; as tired as he was tossing his head so that Kylo must put a restraining hand to his bridle.

Seeing Tie settled in a loose box, his groom hastening to rub him down and get a covering on him, he asked for direction as to where his wife may be found.

The Lady was entertaining was the cheerful reply, and he doubted whether she could see her unexpected visitor until morning. Kylo bit back the retort, ‘Do you know who I am?’ It seemed everything here was made to suit the whim of his wife, he having no authority at all.

Gruffly asking that his men be cared for, he was blithely assured, “Oh, don’t worry, my lord, we’ve plenty to eat and drink, and to spare, and grand fires to warm yourself before. The Lady is particular about her housekeeping, such food as we now have, well, it’s wonderful, my lord, really it is. Ragout and casseroles and the like, The Lady being French you see. Aye, and the crusts of the bread must snap when you break them open. Very particular The Lady is about her bread, the crusts must snap when broken and if the texture be like that of a sponge, back it goes with a scowl and an unkind word. She took one bite of what the kitchens served up her first day in residence and declared there had to be a change, and so there was.” His shoulders shook with mirth.

“Very set in her ways The Lady is, very set. When she says a thing must be changed, changed it must be, and right now too otherwise we feel it. Oh, yes, we feel it, and her not the size of twopenneth worth of copper.”

This confidence obviously triggered some memory of ‘feeling it’, for he gave a wheezy laugh, clutching at his rotund belly. Kylo began to suspect he may be in drink.

“Aye, and not overly fond of roast beef, either, though she sets it on the table - under protest.” The man winked at Kylo and continued, “Rosbif’ she calls it, wrinkling up her nose when she sees it, like it’s a bad smell; as if her pâtés don’t smell like old boots. Boar pâté she set out the other day and dear me did it pong, but she ate it with relish. She has the constitution of a soldier that one, and that’s a fact.” He was wheezing again.

Clearly, thought Kylo sourly, his wife had tamed the english, for there was real affection in the way the man was describing his wife’s idiosyncrasies. He felt hurt. He was sure not one of his household had a twentieth of such affection for him.

Eventually, he was put in the hands of a servant wearing the livery of Gascony   
and taken to a chamber which, the valet assured him, had been designated his from the start of Madame’s occupancy. He nodded curtly in acknowledgement; well, she’d spared _some_ thought to him keeping company with her. His face now wore a mulish look. He supposed he should be grateful she hadn’t replaced him in her affections. That thought stopped him short. Had she replaced him in her affections?

He was helped out of his cloak, now steaming due to the roaring fire he was standing before, all his clothes feeling damp and clammy now he was in the warm. Helped off with his boots, the valet knelt before him with the intention of rubbing life back into his frozen feet. He declined this office, but the valet worriedly assured him that Milady had given orders that his every comfort must be attended to. She would be displeased if M’sieur had frost bitten toes through her servants neglect.

Mollified, he submitted. She still had _some_ care for him then. He accepted the goblet of spiced wine put into his hand, sipping it slowly and enjoying the slow warmth spreading throughout his body. A bowl of soup was brought in, rich and satisfying. A roll of fresh baked bread was with it. Curious, he broke it. Yes, it broke with a snap being very crusty, and the texture was not that of a sponge. No harsh words carried back to the kitchen tonight then.

As he hungrily spooned down the beef and vegetables, he dipped the bread into the broth - his mother would clip his ear if she could but see him, this was a peasant’s trick - and stuffed the sopping morsel into his mouth so that the liquid trickled down his chin.

Spooning the last of the meat and vegetables into his mouth, he tipped the bowl and drank the last of the broth directly from it. That would have earned him a surreptitious kicked shin under the table at least. He grinned, this recollection of his mother’s strictures on polite behaviour, ruthlessly enforced, was a rare good memory of their life together.

He set down dish and spoon and poured himself a glass of claret from the bottle set on the table, settling down before the fire, toes stretched out toward the flames, suddenly feeling sleepy.

More servants trooped in, placing a copper hip bath before the fire and labouring to fill it from tall copper jugs; he began to strip. His body squire came in, by the looks of it fresh from the kitchen as he wiped grease from around his mouth with the back of his hand. He helped his master strip out of his clothes, bundling them up for laundry, and laying out his night robe and a clean shirt, hose and tunic for the next day.

Dismissing them all, Kylo stepped into the fragrantly scented bath and dipped his head under, glorying in the sensation of the hot water on his skin, running down his back and chest. Pushing back his hair, the longest he’d ever worn it, he picked up the camomile scented soap from the dish by the side of the bath and began to scrub away the stink and sweat from his body.

Oh what relief the bath afforded, he felt physically lighter as he stepped out, his toes and fingers beginning to prune and the water to cool. He drew a linen towel around his hips and patted dry with another the entirety of his body, vigorously towel drying his hair then putting a comb through it, sweeping it back from his face.

As he tied his robe securely, the servants came back in to pick the bath up by its brass handles, carefully manhandling it so no water sloshed out. The room set to rights, a dish of fruit and nuts brought: fragrant oranges and sugared almonds and hazelnuts. A courteous inquiry was made, “Does, m’sieur require aught else?” No, m’sieur did not. “Only my wife,” he breathed as the door closed softly behind them.

It sometimes occurs, when lovers are very much in love, that little torments are devised to test the ardency of the one beloved. These little tests have their roots in insecurity; in jealousy. Of course, they constitute a dangerous game to play, but are no less thrilling for that.

The young countess, in possession of two letters saying a great deal about Simon Snoke and why it wasn’t convenient to act against him and very little about her, was determined to win from her husband such expressions of affection - in word and deed - to judge him worthy of her. With this intent, she visited him when her guests had either gone to bed or gone home, her hair loose down her back, her robe tied tightly.

Having not sen him for over three months, and having now a hazy recollection of his appearance and beauty, he being snatched away from her before she could learn every last contour of his person, she was left somewhat breathless by the sight of the tall, dark man before her, hair pushed back from a face which was now adorned with a moustache and beard. He was beautiful in his dark looks. In presence as alluring as she had always supposed Arthurian heroes to be. Her resolve almost crumbled - almost.

He had been dozing in his chair before the fire, for the hour was late, and came awake with suddenness and she had a brief glimpse of the predatory animal he surely could be lurking under the guise of his humanity. Just when she thought she could be afraid of him, the beast was pushed down, overwhelming joy at seeing her expressed.

As his arms enfolded her, his head dipping to claim kisses, she went up on tiptoe, her arms winding themselves around his neck, drinking in the scent and feel of him. There was that noble nose pressing into the softness of her cheek as she remembered, the plush lips working softly but with intent against hers, and then the impatient thrusting of his tongue against her mouth, wanting to gain entrance there so as to fully possess her.

This was what she had left her land for; willing to cross a turbulent ocean and persuade under her banner such persons as could help release her lover from his bonded servitude.

When he broke the kiss to better look at her, tracing a gentle finger over her face as though to commit to memory her own visage, she softly spoke the name he had given her that one night they had spent together truly as man and wife. She said it softly so that only he could hear, seeing a slow wide smile spread across his features, his eyes softening with adoration, then he kissed her again and she was lost.

Had he but had words as tender, he could have had all of her. However, once more he was deficient and gave offence by his words and awoke a desire to administer punishment of a most exquisite sort.

She regretted, she could not come to bed for, ‘the custom of women is upon me’.

Her elegant use of language was beyond him, she must explain, the telltale sign of her displeasure appearing between her brows. If she stayed they must quarrel so she took herself off, whisking herself out of his arms and letting her maids draw her from the room. His feelings were beyond expressing. However, an expensive wine glass found its way to the back of the fire, smashing against the cast iron fire back bearing the arms of Duke William.

Had he truly been a knight of Arthur, a note expressing tender regret and apology would have been delivered to his wife the next morning, or a verse from a poem carefully copied out and accompanied by fresh flowers. Unfortunately, none of these courtly refinements were the possession of her husband, rather he adopted a more tactical approach - he subverted her maids.

He found them in the shelter of a knot garden located within the tower precincts, taking their daily constitutional as was their custom. Their mistress was not with them, as he was very well aware.

Cutting to the chase, for they were aware of his travail, being never far from his wife’s side, he made his opening gambit, “How much?”

This was too obscure even for them, their wits usually sharply honed, they blinked at him in confusion and instinctively drew together, their arms encircling each other’s waists.

“To permit me to come to my wife’s bed,” he felt his ears heat up.

They exchanged sly looks of understanding.

“What cost did you have in mind,” one of the blondes spoke up.

“Two silver pennies.”

“Each?” the other blonde spoke up.

“Yes, that’s fair,” he replied, glad to have the deal done.

Their heads drew together, whispers he strained to hear were exchanged.

“Sixpence,” the dark haired one entered negotiations, “each, per night.”

He did rapid calculation and was scandalised. “That’s robbery. Why that’s ten shillings and sixpence a week. I could employ three men at arms for that sum!”

“Well,” pointed out one of the blondes, “you don’t have to visit _every_ night.” She rolled her eyes and the three of them tittered into their hands. He shifted his feet uncomfortably, his ears burning.

“Alright, I agree your terms.”

“A week’s money up front,” the dark haired one chimed in. He nodded, mortified.

The other blonde bethought herself of something. The three of them put their heads together and a great deal of frantic whispering and gesticulating ensued. The three of them raised their heads and informed him of another sub clause - the deal was good until Lent.

He groaned. The season of Lent, now in sight, was when married couples customarily gave up carnal relations. He had no intention of doing so. Evidently they knew it too. He capitulated, during Lent it would cost a shilling, each, per visit, to see his wife unfettered by their annoying presence.

That night he trod to his wife’s room, knocking gently at the door. Could they be any more obvious? The door swung open and they tumbled out, heading for his room, giggling all the while, no doubt to count out their ill gotten gains.

Taking possession of the room and locking the door, drawing the bolts top and bottom, he turned and took in his wife’s look of astonished surprise. She was in bed, lying against banked up pillows. She was quicker of wit than him in matters of the heart, her brows lifting in comprehension and her smile wide.

“Ben Solo, did you bribe my maids to have your way with me?”

He nodded, mute before her.

She laughed, throwing back her head and exposing the long column of her throat to his hot gaze. He took a step forward, mesmerised by the sight.

She lowered her head, her lips curving in a wide smile. Drawing back the covers on his side, she patted the mattress invitingly. “Come, love, come to bed.”

He was moving before she finished speaking, throwing down his weapons atop the coverlet, his robe flung away too, and sliding between the soft linen sheets to take his rightful place in her arms.

She schooled him that night in the soft ways of love. He schooled her in its ardent passions.

When report was made to Snoke of his apprentice’s besottedness, he cursed all the daughters of Eve.


	4. The End of All Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Ayearandaday, here is your gift finished, hun. I hope you like it. Stay safe in these uncertain times and keep writing your wonderful stories. ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> ps I imagined Rey singing Vivre et Mourir from Mary, Queen of Scots. It is on YouTube.

**The Baron**

He was an aberration.

Born into minor nobility, he had fulfilled part of his dynastic imperative and striven to improve his position and place - mostly by clinging onto the coat tails of the Skywalker’s. Most notably by predating on the naïveté of young Skywalker, his blood tainted by the unworthy mate his mother picked for herself out the gutter. All too often, to his disgust, the boy revealed himself to have the heart of his father.

Oh, had he had the heart of Anakin Skywalker, what he could have made of him, though he had to admit, had the boy been an Anakin he, Simon Snoke, would be dead by now.

The girl he’d married though; she was a Palpatine through and through, he now had no doubt.

He’d tried for Sheev Palpatine’s service once and had been sent on his way, the old man’s eyes burning a hole through him, reading his heart; protective of the mite sat on a footstool at his feet. A useless female he’d thought at the time; he bore her no spleen for proving him to be in error.

A great swathe she was cutting through London, undoing over a decade of subversion. He teetered between hatred and admiration as word of her gyrations reached him piecemeal.

She’d gone for the support of the mercantile class, not the nobility or parliament, both institutions not able to exist without the wealth trade brought, and she’d taken possession of the Tower with a handful of silver coin. Whoever held the Tower held London, the beating heart of the nation, as the Iron Duke had intended. Yes, she was all Sheev.

She had young Skywalker in her thrall too, the charms of Bazine Netal trodden underfoot and now despised; months of calculated seduction done away with in an instant it seemed. No sooner had that young idiot heard his wife was in London than he was off, with no thought of his obligation to his master. The siege he was conducting collapsing with heavy losses and the northern lords were now in good heart, perceiving his own eventual destruction.

This could not be allowed to be. Clearly, young Skywalker’s days must now be numbered. The girl though, the girl was useful, he needed to get her in his power. To that end he would send Hux to London.

His shoulders shook with silent laughter. Hux tried to hide it from him, but he too was in thrall to the chit. Mooning over every scrap of news about her, believing that his own mother would have been a great lady in the countess’s style, had she not had the misfortune to be married to Brendol Hux. Yes, Hux’s infatuation would be made use of.

For himself, he wanted no marriage, no progeny, and in this he was aberrant, for having gained so much it was his obligation to hand it to a new generation, brought forth from his loins - but he would not. No, everything he won was for himself alone, and it would burn when he was at last gathered to his fathers. Let them fight it out amongst themselves for a portion of his legacy.

Chaos, it was the only route through which a man could truly progress and gain everlasting fame. Palpatine had thrived on it, and the first Skywalker, and the Iron Duke had won a kingdom harnessing it. His name, too, would be an enduring one alongside theirs because of it.

Let other men’s names fade and be forgotten, his would be remembered in the histories. His would live forever; but first he needed to get his hands upon the girl.

**A Lover and his Lady**

His wife scolded her maids for allowing themselves to be subverted, and from taking money from their lord. They must give it back she declared imperiously, standing tapping her foot as they placed the ill-gotten gains into his hand, shame-faced and with red rimmed eyes.

He had made a push privately to defend them, to let them off lightly, but no, she would not. “You seek to make them greedy,” she averred, “how safe would my person be if everyone who wished need only bribe my maids to gain access to me?” He had not thought of that, but there again he was not as wise as she.

He was learning too that it wasn’t enough to buss his wife and bid her come with him to bed, but he must soften her heart first; make pretty speeches and buy her trinkets with very little monetary value but a great deal of the sentimental sort. This was a lesson hard learned.

Fortunately, for she was a kind mistress, she gave him little hints how to go about this. So he put his writing skills to good use, for his hand was better than any clerk’s, and copied out portions of her favourite poems. 

These were best received, he learned, if the vellum was rolled up and tied with a pretty ribbon, a sprig of dried lavender or the like under the knot, and placed upon her pillow.

He had a truly inspired moment when, instead of dried vegetation, he looped her new wedding ring (properly sized) through the knot instead. This was a great success. For some reason, she wouldn’t part with the old one though, but instead wore it on a chain about her neck.

Eventually he got the hang of it, particularly after the birth of their first child, when he would bring such trifles as a freshly plucked apple as a gift and trade it for a kiss.

As the husband he had all the rights, as her lover he had none at all, only her capricious whim, (or so it seemed), which must be satisfied if he were to gain the true benefit of her love.

“Let me tell you,” he would later instruct his sons, “this is a very hard thing to learn and you must pay it mind.”

“Who will teach us, Papa,” they chirped. “Why, the lady herself,” he replied.

“Ohhh,” their eyes widened apprehensively.

He nodded portentously, “See what I mean?”

“Yes, Papa,” they nodded solemnly.

Meanwhile, he must do the best he may; though he noticed that when he came to help her dismount, for he would let no groom put hands on her if he were in her company, she quite liked it if he held her up in the air for a moment, his hands spanning her waist.

He believed she liked the feeling of helplessness, to feel the strength of his mighty muscles, because she got a little flustered, her cheeks showing pink under her tan, every time. He would grin at her when he put her down, as though she were a little lamb and he the wolf got into the fold. It would take her sometime to settle after, he saw it - every time - even in church.

So, he stumbled and fumbled his way through his new role, estranged from Snoke, but not yet feeling strong enough to go against him - in truth the Baron occupied a place in his mind he didn’t like to analyse too deeply.

He wasn’t afraid of Snoke, but it was something like. He’d been under the Baron’s thumb too long to easily slough him off. Thankfully his wife seemed to have no opinion on the matter, but did encourage him to repair bridges with his subjects. Goodness knew, that alone was to be a labour of Hercules.

It took until Palm Sunday, the Sunday before Easter, before he understood that Snoke knew no such scruple regarding him. He lifted his wife out the saddle, performing his usual ritual, and trailed after her up the steps of St. Paul’s, for this was an important festival in the Christian calendar and they must be seen to publicly celebrate it.

It was while he dipped his fingers in holy water, to make the sign of the cross and then genuflect in sight of the altar, he felt rather than saw the assassin rush him from his left. His instinct took over and he prepared to block his body with his arm, though he was wearing his padded jupon. The knifeman, however, did not strike directly at his body but rather struck out wildly and he felt a sting in his arm even as he brushed away the blow.

He heard a woman scream as he went to close with the knifeman, but then Poe was there cutting him down, his own squires falling in around him as a protective shield - for Snoke had taken back his bodyguard when he returned without the promised dowry.

Around him was pandemonium, steel being drawn and his wife pushing through the milling crowd to cast herself into his arms, wild sobs coming from her. “Oh, thank the Maker you are saved,” she sobbed, “such gifts I will make to St Paul for your deliverance.”

“Hush, sweetheart,” he soothed, “it was the worse assassination attempt in the history of assassins. Look, he scratched only my arm, and has rather ruined my new tunic than hurt me.”

“That’s because he didn’t need to,” Poe’s voice sounded, too calm in its tone, “look, _domina_ , here’s poison.”

Poe carefully held out the dagger, coated with some oily substance, a thin thread of black pooling at the tip of the blade. His wife looked at it aghast, “Are you sure?” her voice sounded high and strained. Poe looked his answer.

Without further ado, his wife put her tiny fingers into the rent in his sleeve and tore open the layers of velvet, silk and linen thus encasing his arm. Without hesitation, she found the wound and put her lips to it, drawing into her mouth blood and poison, spitting it out onto the pavement as they stood by the first stone pillar before the open cathedral door.

“Love,” he pleaded, “ you’ll take harm, please desist.” She paid him no mind, and held his arm in a viselike grip as he tried to pull away.

Poe, knowing her better, ordered a ring of steel about them, a perimeter within which Kylo’s Ren’s wife sucked the poison out of her husband’s body and spat it out on hallowed ground, in front of the great and good of the land.

At last she was done, raising a wan, tear-stained face to his. “Love,” he pleaded softly, “do not grieve.”

“I tell you now,” her voice was hard and tight, “if you die I will pull Snoke’s house down over his head and cut him into collops to feed the ravens.”

Looking into her face, he had no doubt she would fulfil her vow. “ I best not die, then,” he said lightly.

Just then, he felt a wave of nausea and staggered a little. He heard his wife give various orders and he was encouraged to haul himself into the saddle. By the time they reached the Tower, he felt disorientated, stumbling into bed before passing out.

He awoke to a room filled with spring sunshine, about the noon hour he supposed, the sun being high, and beaming in through the windows his wife must stand on tiptoe to peek out of.

He felt well rested, almost too well rested, as his body seemed loathe to move. He smacked his lips, what a thirst he had, had he come to bed inebriated? There was a sound, a melodious sound. What was wrong with his senses? He must have had a great deal to drink. Would his wife be cross with him?

At the thought of her, his fogged brain seemed to clear a little and he was aware that the sound was someone strumming a guitar and softly singing a song about life and death. He opened his eyes fully.

He was in his bed, banked up on pillows, and there, in his line of sight, charmingly framed between the bed curtains, was his wife; unusually for her dressed all in black. It was she who was strumming on the guitar and singing. He decided to tease her.

“What-ho wife, there’s a melancholy tune to wake to. I stayed too long in my cups not my coffin!” He gave a rumbling laugh which turned into a coughing fit. Lord was his throat dry.

“Ben, Ben, my Ben!”

Down the guitar was flung with a crash and the splintering of wood and the twang of strings, and she rushed to his side casting herself over his chest clutching him wherever she could find purchase. He noticed he was wearing a shirt, highly unusual for him as normally he slept naked.

“What’s this wife, are you so neglected you must maul me?”

She raised a tear-stained face to him, her eyes filled with yet more. A memory tugged at him. Rey crying, in church?

“Ben, do you not recall, you were stabbed.”

“Was I really?” he sounded astonished, “I thought I was drunk.”

Her face was tender and filled with concern, “Ben, do you not remember, Snoke sent an assassin. He used a dagger dipped in poison.”

“He did? Did I kill him?”

“No, Poe did, but, heart, he nearly killed you.”

“Poe nearly killed me? Why?”

“Not you, the assassin. Ben I want you to lay here quietly while I fetch the surgeon. I fear something has happened to your wits.”

Her face was scrunched up with worry and he reached out and covered her hand with one of his. She felt cold, her fingers frozen in spite of the fire in the grate.

“Don’t worry, I’ll soon be well.” His throat gave a dry rasp, “But for the love of all that’s holy, fetch me a glass of wine.”

She brought him a glass of claret and he gulped it down.

He smacked his lips upon draining the glass, “Another, wife, if you please.” She bought him a second and this he was able to sip, his throat being eased. He looked at her owlishly. 

“Was I in a church.?” She nodded, “You were.”

“And did you do something to my arm.” He looked at his bandaged left arm.

She almost wept with relief, “I did, I sucked the poison out.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he scolded, “you might have died.”

“Dearest, had I not _you_ most certainly would have.”

“There’s that,” he nodded his head wisely, “but I still wish you hadn’t done it.”

“Well, there’s gratitude,” she started to become indignant.

“No, no, don’t quarrel with me, it’s just you’re too precious to lose, whereas I ...” His voice trailed off.

“Do not say that,” her voice was fierce, her face wore a scowl, “you are plenty precious; to me, to your mother, to your people.”

He looked at her sadly, wishing it were true, but didn’t answer.

She took his face in her hands and kissed him passionately, his right arm instinctively enfolding her. She smelled sweet, but he was aware of a metallic taste on his own lips. Medication he supposed drowsily, to help him get better.

+++

He rapidly recovered his faculties, after lying three days in a coma, attending Mass at St Paul’s, Easter Day. The situation with Snoke reverted to the status quo afterwards.

Shortly after that, he wrote his wife her first proper love letter. He wrote it on parchment and folded and sealed it with red wax and his personal seal. He left it on her pillow.

**The Red-headed Man**

The porter at Simon Snoke’s London townhouse goggled at the richly dressed lady requesting admittance, her face obscured by a hood drawn low over her face.

A foreign lady to be sure, French perhaps. Not a lady love, for the red-headed man kept no paramour, having a disgust of the female sex it sometimes seemed. Anyway, the lady’s style was imperious, he did not think she was a bawd or some bored noble lady come to illicitly meet her lover.

That he had speculated too long and incurred her displeasure was soon evident, a tiny foot peeped out from under her gown and began to tap out an impatient metre upon the York flagstones. Flustered, he began to bow and apologise but was over-ridden, the lady saying in frustrated tones, “today, if you please, m’sieur.”

Immediately he withdrew, scratching on his master’s door where he took his breakfast, a room at the back of the house overlooking the garden. He found to his dismay the lady was close on his heels, barging past him and making her own introduction, “M’sieur Hux, I hope I do not disturb you, but we have much to discuss.”

His master evidently recognised his visitor for he rose hastily from his chair, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and uttering one word: “Countess!” The porter’s ears pricked up, was there information here he could sell?”

Unfortunately, the red-headed man noticed him and bid him take himself off. Baulked of a possible largesse, he shuffled back to his post to find the countess’s maid sitting primly there, her hood drawn low like her mistress’s. He tried for a subtle interrogation, but the girl was clearly a mute and he gave it up, grumbling as he once more took his place in his hooded porter’s chair.

Meanwhile, Hux had set his visitor a chair at the table, offering her refreshment. She took a roll of bread and complimented him upon his discernment; she could not have better bread baked for herself. He preened a little under her unstinting praise.

She spread butter lavishly on her roll, permitting him to pour her a cup of small beer, and crowned it with a dollop of conserve. Both butter and jam were found to be excellent; he nodded acknowledgement of the compliment but his eyes were now guarded, he was not so susceptible to praise.

A large marmalade cat came in through the open window, padding over the tablecloth to seek caresses from Armitage Hux. These he gave freely, a fond smile curving his lips, his eyes full of affection for the bold creature. The countess took surreptitious note of this interaction as she bit into her breakfast. The gentleman was inordinately pleased when the cat repaid him with loud, continuous purring.

Shortly, the feline went to sniff at the joint of beef on the table; the gentleman obliging by cutting off a thin sliver for it to break its fast.

“Ah, the rosbif,” lisped the lady, unable to pronounce roast beef, “I find the English much addicted to eating the burnt flesh of the cow. It seems even their cats enjoy it too.”

The gentleman laughed but made no answer. No longer distracted by his cat’s demands, his features assumed their customary stillness.

“How may I serve you, _domina_ ,” he asked politely when his unexpected visitor paused for breath in her diatribe against the culinary habits of the English.

A shrewd look was cast his way, the lady having long since drawn back her hood, “I seek friendship and a friend, m’sieur.”

He arched an eyebrow, here was plain speaking.

“And what, _domina_ would you have this friend do - in friendship?”

She arched an eyebrow of her own. “Do, m’sieur? Why, I would ask him to do nothing, absolutely nothing - in friendship.”

He regarded her pensively. “I see.”

“Do you, m’sieur, I wonder? Perhaps I have some things you do not see.” 

She leaned forward conspiratorially, “How do you say, some trick up my sleeve.” She laughed, a merry sound. The cat, finishing its repast, came to sit by its master and began to clean its paws. Absentmindedly, he put out a hand and began to fondle behind its ears and to smooth the fur on its back. He was all attention.

“Your mother was of the de la Mare’s, no?” she began abruptly.

He looked at her, an unpleasant look. A dangerous look. He graced her question with a single sharp nod.

“A bad business,” she continued, “a jealous sister-in-law is the very devil.” She leaned forward again, lowering her voice. “Fortunately I don’t have one ... only an interfering mother-in-law.”

His eyes widened, he looked at her with renewed interest.

“As a de la Mare, she could have looked as high as she wished, there are many ancient rights in that bloodline.” He looked overcome at her words, nodding mutely, as if long despairing of hearing them uttered.

“Such blood as that cannot be tainted, even if it is matched unworthily.” She looked at him again; he held himself rigidly, anticipating her next words.

“Such blood would trump any inferior blood, including that of upstart baron’s who over-reach themselves and rely on Parliament to keep them in power. Should the voice of the common man be heard over those whose ancestors delivered the land to them by their industry and the sharp edge of a sword? I tell you, it is an unnatural thing.”

“ _Domina_ ,” his voice sounded dry and he spoke with difficulty, “you speak treasons.”

“I speak treasons? Has your blood truly been tainted after all? I am a Palpatine, you are of the de la Mare. Against whom do we speak treasons except against our own blood if we forget that?”

Her voice had risen slightly, impassioned, it stirred his own blood.

She stilled, panting slightly.

“Come, m’sieur, we must speak of happier things, quietly, so as not to be heard before an open window, perhaps of a _mariage_.” He glanced to where the cat had come in and left off caressing it to tread over to the open casement and draw it to, after first looking out to see if anyone lingered in the vicinity.

“I trust you have heard of the Lancaster twins?” she asked him when he had again settled himself into his chair. He nodded, puzzled at the sudden change of subject.

“A bad business, to be sure, as seems the custom with the English aristocracy. Two young heirs denied their inheritance by a wicked uncle. Murdered, it is supposed, by him, most certainly not found, and he half mad with guilt and still haunted by the deed, though clinging on to the dukedom with desperate hands because he has no living heir.

Did you know that the girl’s nurse was of Gascony, and devoted to her?”

The hand which had been stroking the cat stilled.

“Yes, she was of Gascony,” she continued, “and her sweetheart, a groom, was of Gascony too. Could it be that that nurse managed to save the girl and brought her to my grandfather, who kept her safe? Could it be that that girl is in my service and ripe to be taken in marriage, if she can be honourably matched - a betrothal before witnesses as good as a marriage? As you well know, that bloodline is an ancient one and it too carries many ancient privileges.”

She made as if to rise, embarrassed by her indiscretion, and to take her leave.

“ _Domina_ ,” he interrupted her stuttering apology, “what would be the bride price be for such a prize?”

That her embarrassment was artificial she immediately revealed, returning to the negotiation without faltering, “Oh, did I not already speak it? Friendship, and to do nothing, absolutely nothing.”

He licked his lips. “You have given me much to consider, _domina_ , a man would be foolish if he did not consider the implications of such a friendship - soberly, in the cold light of day. For it may mean he had to put off other friends.”

“Of course. You know where to find me, a discreet note handed in at the gate will suffice, and a watergate exists for those visitors who come by river under the cover of night. There are more of those than you may think.” Her laugh rang out again.

He stood and trod over to her, she held out her hand to kiss, a great honour. As he went to raise his head she touched his cheek. He paused, feeling the coolness of that touch, breathing in the scent of her perfume. He closed his eyes and dared to dream.

She spoke softly, “When I was four years old I sat at my grandfather’s feet; your Baron Snoke came before us, a poor knight, begging for a place in our service. My grandfather sent him away as a cur wishing to breed with blue-bloods. He has aimed high, but he will fall, in a while, in a very little while.

I was always intended for Kylo Ren. Louis and Leia think that the match was made by them, they are in error. It was made by Sheev Palpatine a long while ago, while the Skywalker’s pulled their own house down about their ears. I will be queen and my son after me will be king, and Gascony will be safe from depredation by the French king. Look to your own house, Armitage de la Mare, or be found a traitor to your blood.”

She took back her hand and pulled her hood down over her face, then she was gone.

He stood a long while looking at the door she had passed through, before turning away and looking a long while out the window at the garden, the marmalade cat purring contentedly under his hand.

**The Final Reckoning**

There came the month of May, and Rey was able to confide to her lord that a fruit of his nightly labours lay in her womb. His joy was beyond anything she could anticipate, an insight into the heart of the warlord she had married. No less dangerous, no less lethal, a man for his times, but a family man too. Her love for him deepened, based on appreciation and not just possession.

He now proved himself to be a worrier. He would move them to Berkhamsted, a castle some twenty miles north of London which guarded the road from the north.

It was situated in the countryside and access to her could be strictly regulated, safeguarding her and the precious cargo she bore against the danger of plague - with which London was routinely afflicted each summer.

By June she was comfortably ensconced there, her every wish and whim pandered to.

In the midst of all this rejoicing, it was forgotten other interested parties existed, whose sentiments toward the coming child were not as benign. Simon Snoke, hearing of the coming babe, determined his strategy would be to take possession of the countess, the kingdom’s future queen, and her child, and rule through them - Kylo Ren, his former protégé, once more being judged surplus to requirements.

This bold move had become very necessary as support for him was slowly but surely eroding. Such policies as could be enacted by the young couple had proven just and fair, reminiscent of the days when Anakin Skywalker and his queen, Padmé, had ruled with an iron fist in a velvet glove.

In his days the likes of Simon Snoke would not have been given the oxygen to breathe - and the land the better for it. That was the consensus. For when the great lords fought among themselves the little people and the land suffered grievously.

Also, not all the knights who held the shires, and who sat in Parliament, drew their income from their land, some invested in trade ventures. The Gascon countess had a great deal of influence with the guilds, and they could see the benefit of hitching their star to hers. Snoke’s influence, as a champion of Parliament, began to waver. His policy of divide and rule, commoner against noble, began to unravel.

He despatched Armitage Hux to make trouble, his lieutenant grown more comical by the day by his infatuation with the little countess. Dreamily staring into the middle distance, indolent and as if in some pleasurable dream, paying full attention when, and only when, her name was mentioned. It was pathetic.

No, now was the time to strike. Kylo Ren had done a foolish thing moving his burgeoning family from the safety of the Tower, (the Constable had rejected Snoke’s recent attempt at subversion and declared he and all within the Tower were loyal only to Rey).

With Hux despatched and Kylo Ren drawn out to meet him, Snoke himself must lead his army and besiege the castle. He thought he had the element of surprise, but found the castle locked up against him, the moat filled and overflowing, fed by subterranean springs, meaning the walls could not be undermined. He settled down to starve it out, for hardly had they had time to stockpile fodder for horses and meat and wine for men. He saw the countess herself worriedly walking the ramparts, looking to the north where her husband was pinned down.

His overtures were met with revulsion, rejected with the most intemperate of French oaths. When he had the little Miss in his power he was capable of making her suffer, a little at least, for her insults.

At the start of the second week of the siege, a shout went up, riders were coming from the north. For one moment his heart lurched and beat erratically ... surely not. Hux was a fine commander and had never before been beaten.

All was well, the banners were his. Although sight of a second banner puzzled the watchers. Someone speculated it was the banner of Lancaster, but surely that was impossible, the current duke elderly and anyway halfway mad. Dark deeds lay in his past. They began to gossip about the case, much to Snoke’s irritation.

The army was almost upon them, not relaxing its pace. Hux could be seen riding under the banner of Lancaster, for they were convinced that’s what it was, but how could that be? Only Lancaster’s heir could fly the ducal banner, and he with no heirs living. Then a great cry of anguish went up. Squires were unfurling other banners, those of the two northern earls, Akbar and Raddus, sworn enemies of Snoke ... and then of Skywalker.

“Do you see that,” Snoke was almost exultant, “I taught him that trick.”

They gazed at him in horror. “You have killed us,” they shouted as they drew steel stranded on foot, their horses away on the picket lines, “and yet you boast?”

He cackled, drawing steel himself, biding the squire who held his banner not to falter. He turned back to face his nemesis, the large black stallion known as Tie, his nostrils red with fury and exertion, his teeth bared, was upon him, his rider swung a great glinting sword and Simon Snoke was no more.

**Epilogue**

It was a triumph, it was a disaster. It was a slaughter, it was a cleansing. It all depended which side you were on.

Certainly the men with Snoke that day were his diehard supporters, although it could be argued that had some been given the insight Armitage Hux had been privy to they may have turned their coat too.

With the majority of them gone, the remnant were only too glad to ransom themselves for a pardon and a new era could be begun.

The lords and Parliament agreed, there was now no impediment to Ben Skywalker claiming the throne of his grandfather. This took place on Christmas Day, the countess having been delivered of her first child, a son, and churched so as to be clean to take the sacrament and be crowned with him.

Leia did not attend, having renounced her claim to the throne as Anakin Skywalker’s daughter, and also renouncing it in behalf of her brother, missing presumed dead at the hand of Simon Snoke.

She released Chewie from his oath to always guard her, sending him rather to England to enter the service of the newest Skywalker prince.

For herself, she was tired of the world of men and chose to enter a convent near where she was domiciled in Gascony, glad to renounce the burden of governance.

A convent, she idly observed, was really a collection of administrative offices, all needing to co-operate the better to worship the Maker.

Old habits die hard, and within a twelvemonth the convent of St. Marguerite had a new prioress. A former princess, who knew how to administer to the righteous, exhort the unrighteousness, bring relief to the deserving poor, and chastisement to the undeserving poor.

Where before she had laboured for a worldly kingdom, now she laboured for a heavenly one. Really, the principles were the same, the politics of the task familiar. St. Marguerite’s was a jewel in the crown of the Lord, everyone agreed, and her labour was well spent as increased revenues from the various farms and demesne flowed in, wasteful habits ruthlessly curbed.

The de la Mare name was restored, being added to the patrimony of the Duchy of Lancaster. The new duke was well content, as was his duchess, who received from him daily every courtesy due.

They came into the dukedom not long after the death of Snoke. The late duke being so obliging as to shrug off his mortal coil most conveniently and without fuss.

Armitage de la Mare né Hux spent the rest of his days raising his sons and daughters, regarding with covetous eyes the de la Mare estate, and worshipping religiously at the altar of the beautiful, deceptive, devious, ambitious, ruthless queen of England.


End file.
